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Book ■ fa s VaJ> 






























































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IN SILK ATTIKE. 


2\. Noud. 


/ 

Bt william black, 

IV 

AUTHOR OF 

‘GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY,” “A PRINCESS OF THULE,” ‘‘THREE 
FEATHERS,” “A DAUGHTER OF HETH,” “MADCAP VIOLET,” &c. 



HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

NEW YORK AND LONDON, 

1900 . 





































































CONTENTS. 


t 


chapter page 

I. OVER, AND SAFE 7 

II. THE LOOK BACK 13 

III. THE MARCHIONESS 17 

IV. THE ACTRESS 23 

V. ST. MARY-KIRBY 33 

VI. CHESTNUT BANK 43 

VII. BALNACLUITH PLACE 49 

VIII. JULIET 55 

IX. THE COUNT’S BROTHER 65 

X. MISS BRUNEL AT HOME 75 

XI. IN THE PARK 83 

XII. GOOD-BYE 88 

XIII. “mit deinen schonen augen” 95 

XIV. THE OUTCAST 101 

XV. SCHON-ROHTRAUT 110 

XVI. SCHONSTEIN 121 

XVII. THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF 131 

XVIII. ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE 142 

XIX. FLIGHT 153 

XX. HOMEWARD 164 

XXI. IN ENGLAND 175 

XXII. ROSALIND 180 

XXIII. HOME AGAIN 186 

XXIV. A LAST WORD 198 

XXV. EVIL TIDINGS 205 

XXVI. THE COUNT’S CHANCE 216 

XXVII. DOUBTFUL 219 

XXVIII. MOTHER CHRISTMAS’S STORY 230 

XXIX. LEFT ALONE 238 

XXX. THE COUNT HESITATES 248 


6 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXXI. THE DECISION 251 

XXXII. CONFESSION 256 

XXXIII. THE BAIT IS TAKEN 262 

XXXIV. THE NEW GOVERNESS 268 

XXXV. ANOTHER BLUNDER 271 

XXXVI. AN OLD ADMIRER 280 

XXXVII. POSSESSION 286 

XXXVIII. ORMOND PLACE 294 

xxxix. “the coulin” 305 


IN SILK ATTIRE 


CHAPTER I. 

OVER, AND SAFE. 

“ I am gathering myself together for a great leap, Jack.” 

“ Don’t look so sad about it, then. Take it as you would one 
of your Berkshire fences, Harry — with a firm seat and a cool 
hand.” 

“ If I only knew what was on the other side, Jack ; that both- 
ers me.” 

“ By-the-way, did you hear of the dinner at old Thornhill’s on 
Tuesday ? I declare everybody was drunk but the dogs ; and 
they were turned out at night to find their way home by them- 
selves. The squire got very, very bad — port and brandy alter- 
nately — tumbled twice off his horse before he got out of the 
gate ; and then, half an hour after, when the rest of us rode home, 
we found him sitting in the middle of the road, in the dark, try- 
ing to ward off the dogs that had gathered round him and were 
for licking his face, while he hiccoughed to them ‘ G- — go away, 
my good people — g — go away ; I’ve really nothing for you ; ’pon 
my soul, I’ve forgot my p — purse.’ But what’s the matter, Har- 
ry? You haven’t heard a word of my story; and you’re look- 
ing as glum as a parson.” 

“ Jack, I’m going to marry.” 

“Don’t be a fool.” 

“ I am, though. It’s all over with me, Jack. I told you I was 
gathering myself together for a great leap.” 

“ Who is it, Harry ?” 

“Annie Napier.” 

There was an interval of dead silence. Mr. John Palk was too 


8 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


prudent a man to hazard a hasty witticism, knowing as he did 
the somewhat fiery temperament of Harry Ormond, Marquis of 
Knottingley. 

“ Do you mean that, Harry ?” 

“Ido.” 

“ You’re in luck, then, lad. But what a host of rivals you’ll 
have blaspheming you ! Why, all London is at Miss Napier’s 
feet. Lord Sotheby and I went to see her last night ; the people 
in the pit were half crazy about her. And when we went round 
to Millington House for some supper, Sotheby swore he’d give his 
soul to the devil for a hundred years to get an introduction to 
Annie — I beg your pardon, to Miss Napier.” 

“ Fellows like Sotheby are rather free in offering their soul to 
the devil,” said Lord Knottingley, with a sneer, “ perhaps because 
it is the thing of least value they have about them ; or because 
they know the devil will have it for nothing by-and-by.” 

“ If you marry Miss Napier, Harry, you’ll be killed in a month. 
I tell you, man, London won’t stand it. Why, they say that the 
Duke of Nor — ” 

Knottingley started to his feet — his face scarlet, his eyes hot 
and angry. 

“ By God, I will drive a sword through the man who breathes 
that lie in my hearing !” 

“Don’t scowl at me, Harry. I don’t believe it.” 

“ Do I care a straw who believes it ? But we needn’t waste 
angry words, Jack. I have known Annie Napier for years ; and 
our family has been rather celebrated for its jealousy. If I, an 
Ormond, marry that girl, people may conclude that there will be 
no longer a market for their scandalous wares. And mind you, 
Jack — don’t you talk of it to any living soul; for I haven’t even 
asked her yet ; but she, or nobody, will be my wife.” 

John Palk went home to order supper for a little party of card- 
players who were to meet at his house that night; and Harry 
Ormond had promised to call in during the evening — that is, the 
card-playing evening, which began when the men got home from 
the theatre. 

Knottingley was himself at the theatre that evening. From 
his box he sent round the following note to the lady who, at that 
time, held London captive with the fascination of her genius and 
her personal loveliness : 


OYER, AND SAFE. 


9 


“ Dearest Annie, — I shall await your comiug home. I have 
something particular to say to my little sister. H.” 

He was alone in the box ; and he sat there, alternately en- 
tranced by the sweet tones of the voice he loved, and enraged by 
the thought that all this houseful of people were sharing a satis- 
faction which by right belonged to him alone. When they ap- 
plauded — as they did often and vehemently, for Miss Napier was 
the idol of the time — he scowled at them as though they were 
insulting the woman whom he hoped to make his wife. He re- 
sented their rude staring as an indignity visited upon himself; 
and when, at the end of the act, they turned and talked to each 
other about the great actress, his family passion drew dark mean- 
ings from their smiles and whispered conversations, and his heart 
burned within him. A night at the theatre was not a pleasure 
to Harry Ormond. He left so maddened by love and jealousy 
that he became a joke to his companions — behind his back, be it 
understood, for he had a quick temper and a sure eye with which 
the wits did not care to trifle. He was not a man to be provoked 
or thwarted lightly ; and in this period of contrariety, disquietude, 
and gusty passion, which falls, in some measure or other, to the 
lot of most young men, a discreet avoidance of irritating topics 
was the course which wisdom dictated to Lord Knottingley’s 
friends. Not that he was a sullen boor or bravo, eager to tread 
on any man’s corns, and kill him for swearing. He, was natural- 
ly light-hearted, fickle, generous ; impulsive in every mood of af- 
fection or dislike ; and at this time, when these uncomfortable 
love -measles were strong upon him, he as often quarrelled with 
himself as with his neighbors. He was sensitive and proud ; he 
was naturally jealous ; his sweetheart, worse luck, was an actress ; 
and it was a time, as some of us can remember, when scandal was 
cultivated as an art. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that 
Harry Ormond suffered all the tortures, while enjoying few of 
the amenities, of love. 

That night he was sitting in Miss Napier’s house, alone and 
moody. He had an uneasy feeling that the strength of his pas- 
sion was forcing him to a step from which his calmer reason 
might otherwise have caused him to shrink. He had not suffb 
cient self-criticism to know that his impulsiveness, under these 
circumstances, might hereafter beget all the mutual miseries of 

1 * 


10 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


inconstancy ; and yet there were vague forebodings in his mind. 
He crossed the room, which was very prettily furnished and brill- 
iantly lighted, and, leaning his arms on the mantel-piece, proceed- 
ed to study a small and daintily executed miniature which hung 
against the wall. Was he trying to trace in these calm and beau- 
tiful features his own destiny? or was he wondering how his 
passion might alter the future of her whom he loved so much? 
or was he bitterly thinking that this portrait, like the original, 
was but a thing at which all men might gaze as well as he ? 

At that moment the door was opened, and there entered the 
actress herself, flushed with the evening’s triumph, and smiling a 
happy welcome to her friend. That first glimpse of her young 
and happy face settled the matter — there was no more doubt, 
no more regret, possible. And as it was not in the nature of the 
man to prepare his utterances, or use any discretion in choosing 
them, he at once went forward, took her hands in his, and, look- 
ing into her face with a sad earnestness, uttered his complaint 
and prayer. 

“Annie, I cannot bear your going upon the stage any longer. 
It is a monstrous thing — a degradation — I cannot bear it. Listen 
to me, Annie, for your own dear sake ; and tell me you will nev- 
er go back to the theatre any more. You are my little sister, are 
you not? and you will do what is best for yourself and me, my 
dearest? How can I bear to hear the women talk of you? how 
can I bear to see the men stare at you ? — and such men and such 
women, Annie ! You do not know what they say and think of 
actresses— but not of you, Annie ! I did not mean that — and so I 
beseech you, darling, to do what I ask you ; will you not ?” 

Her eyes fell. 

“And what would you have me do afterward?” she asked, in 
a low voice. 

“ Be my wife, Annie ; there, I have told you ! Look in my 
face, my dearest. You know I have loved you always; trust me 
now !” 

“ Trust you !” she said, looking up with sweet wet eyes ; “ you 
know I trust you, Harry. Whom should I trust but you ?” 

“ And you say — ” 

“ I say I will do anything for you, Harry, except that— any- 
thing except that,” she said, with a white, downcast face and 
trembling lips. “You have been too good to me, Harry; you 


OVER, AND SAFE. 


11 


have given me too much of your love and your kindness, for me 
to let you do such a thing. It is for your sake only I refuse. 
You remember when you said you would always be a brother to 
me ; and I was thankful within my heart to hear you say that ; 
and after having been my dear brother and my friend for all this 
time, do you think I would make such a poor return for all your 
love as to let you marry — an actress ? I will leave the stage, if it 
will please you ; I will lie down in my grave, if it will please you, 
and be happy enough if I knew you wished it. I will do any- 
thing for you, Harry ; but not that — not that !” 

Wherewith he caught her in his arms, and kissed her — pas- 
sionately, despairingly. 

“ My angel, my dearest, are you mad, to talk in that way ? Do 
you not see that the great favor would fall upon me only ? Is 
there a woman in all England to be compared with you, my 
queen, my darling ? What matters your being an actress to me ? 
It is you, not the actress, whom I beg for a wife ; and if you 
would see in what way I should ask you for so great a blessing, 
here at your feet I kneel — you an empress, and I your slave.” 

And so he knelt down before her, and took her hand and 
looked up into her eyes. That may have been the fashion in 
which lovers spoke in those days, or it may be that the strong 
passion of the young man thrilled him into using stage language. 
But there could be no doubt about the absolute sincerity of the 
words ; and the girl, with a sort of sad, wistful pleasure in her 
face, heard his urgent prayer. 

“ See, Annie, am I low enough ? For God’s sake, do not mock 
me by saying you cannot be my wife because you are an actress ! 
You are to me the noblest and tenderest of women, and there is 
nothing I hope for but your love. What do you say, Annie? 
Will you not speak a word to me ?” 

She stooped down and gently kissed away the tears from his 
cheeks. 

“I am ashamed of your goodness, dear,” she said, in her low, 
intense voice, “and I wish you had not asked me. But oh! 
Harry, Harry, how can I hide that I love you with my whole 
heart ?” 

She placed her hand on his soft brown hair — that hand which 
half London would have died to have kissed — and looked for a 
moment into his love-stricken eyes. In that brief moment the 


12 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


compact was sealed between them, and they were thenceforth 
husband and wife. She uttered a few words — rather indistinctly, 
to be sure — of farewell ; and then she lightly kissed his forehead 
and left the room. 

He rose, bewildered, pale, and full of an indescribable happi- 
ness; and then he went down-stairs, and out into the open air. 
There was a light in her bedroom as he turned and looked up; 
and he said, 

“ I leave my heart in her dear keeping, for good or ill.” 

Shortly afterward he made his appearance in Mr. John Falk’s 
rooms; and by that time there was nothing on his face but a 
happy, audacious trust in the future, an expression which im- 
mediately struck one of his friends who was seated at one of the 
small tables. 

“ Knottingley, come here,” said this gentleman. “ I see you 
bring good luck in your face. Back me !” 

“ I will. A hundred guineas on Lord Wriothesly’s next hand !” 

“Done with you, Harry,” said Mr. John Palk, to whom a hun- 
dred guineas was an acceptable sum, now that he had managed, 
by aid of ace, king, and queen (with occasional help from a racing 
favorite) to scatter one of the finest estates possessed by any pri- 
vate gentleman in England. 

As it happened, too, Lord Wriothesly and his partner won ; 
and Mr. Palk made a little grimace. At a sign from Ormond, he 
followed the young marquis into a corner, where their conversa- 
tion could not be overheard. 

“ You’ll have to take paper, Harry,” said Palk. 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ The hundred guineas — ” 

“ Confound your hundred guineas ! Sit down, and listen to 
me. I am an expatriated man.” 

“ How ?” said Mr. Palk, quietly taking a chair. 

“ Miss Napier is going to be my wife ; and I know she will 
never have the courage to confront my friends — rather, I should 
say, I shall never allow her to sue in any way for recognition 
from them. You see? Then, I shouldn’t like to have my wife 
brought face to face with people who have paid to see her ; and 
so — and so, Jack, I am going to give up England.” 

“You are paying a long price for wedded happiness, Harry.” 

“There I differ with you, Jack. But never mind. I want 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


13 


you to help me in getting up a quiet little wedding down in 
Berks; for I know she will never consent to meeting my rela- 
tives and all the riffraff of my acquaintances — ” 

“ Thank you, Harry.” 

“ And I am sure she will be glad to leave the stage at once, if 
that is possible.” 

“What a pace you have! You’re at the end of everything 
when other people are thinking of the beginning. But, in good 
faith, Harry, you are to be congratulated ; and you may rely on 
my services and secrecy to the last.” 

And to Harry Ormond, when he went outside that night, it 
seemed as if all the air around him were full of music. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE LOOK BACK. 

How still the lake of Thun lay, under the fierce heat! The 
intense blue of it stretched out and over to the opposite shore, 
and there lost itself in the soft green reflection of the land; 
while the only interruption of the perfect surface was a great 
belt of ruffled light stirred by the wind underneath the promon- 
tory of Spiez. Then overhead the misty purple mass of the Nies- 
sen ; and beyond that again the snowy peaks of the Schreckhorn, 
Monch, and Jungfrau glimmering through the faint and luminous 
haze of the sunlight; and over these the serene blue of a Swiss 
sky. Down in front of the house the lake narrowed to the sharp 
point at which it breaks suddenly away into the rapid, surging 
green-white waters of the Aar ; and at this moment, as seen from 
the open window, two men in a low flat-boat were vainly endeav- 
oring to make head against the powerful current. 

At the window sat a little girl of about four years old, with 
large dark -gray eyes, a bright, clear face, magnificent jet-black 
curls; a doll -looking little thing, perhaps, but for the unusual 
depth and meaning of those soft, large eyes. All at once she 
put her elbows on a tiny card -table opposite her, clasped her 
hands, and said, with a piteous intonation, 

“ Nu, Nu ; oh, I don’t know what to do !'” 


1 4 


THE LOOK BACK. 


Her father, who had been lying silent and listless on a couch 
in the shadow of the room, looked up and asked her what was 
the matter. 

“ My doll is lying out in the sun,” she said, in accents of comic 
despair, “ and the poor thing must be getting a headache, and I 
am not allowed, Nu says, to go out just now.” 

“What a little actress she is!” her father muttered, as he re- 
turned, with a slight laugh, to his day-dreaming. 

And she was an actress — every atom of her. She had not the 
least self-consciousness; the assuming of appropriate speech and 
gesture was to her more natural than the bashful sense of person- 
ality with which most children are burdened. A true actress will 
smile quite naturally into the Polyphemus eye of a camera; a 
false actress will be conscious of deceit even in dressing herself 
to have her portrait taken. This child of four had the self-aban- 
donment of genius in her mimetic efforts. She coaxed her moth- 
er and wheedled her father with an artless art which was quite 
apparent ; and her power of copying the tender phrases she heard 
used was only equalled by the dramatic manner in which she de- 
livered them. The appeal to “ Nu ” — which was a contraction 
for “ nurse ” — was her invariable method of expressing intense 
despair. If her mamma reprimanded her, if she lost one of her 
toys, or if she merely felt out of sorts — it was all the same : down 
went the elbows and out came the pitiful exclamation, “ Oh, Nu, 
Nu, I don’t know what to do !” This little girl was the daughter 
of the Marquis of Knottingley, who now lay upon the couch over 
there ; and it is of her that the present history purposes to speak. 

For Harry Ormond had been right in his surmise. The young 
actress begged him not to insist upon her meeting his friends and 
acquaintances ; and he, to whom no sacrifice was then great 
enough to show his gratitude for her love, readily consented to 
go abroad after the quiet little ceremony which took place down 
in Berkshire. They went to Thun, and lived in this house, which 
lay some short distance from the village, overlooking the beauti- 
ful lake ; and here Lord Knottingley forgot his old world, as he 
was by it forgotten. His marriage was known only to a few, 
though it was suspected by many, and coupled with the unex- 
pected withdrawal from the stage of Annie Napier. In the end, 
however, the matter dropped into oblivion, and Harry Ormond 
was no more thought of. 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


15 


For several years they lived there a still and peaceful existence, 
varied only by an occasional excursion southward into Italy. 
The halo of his romantic passion still lingered around his young 
wife ; and in the calm delight of her presence he forgot old asso- 
ciations, old friends, old habits. 

“You cannot expatriate a married man,” he used to say, “for 
he carries with him that which makes a home for him wherever 
he goes.” 

She, too, was very happy in those days. She could never be 
persuaded that her husband had not made a great sacrifice in 
coming abroad for her sake; and she strove to repay him with 
all the tenderness and gratitude and love of a noble nature. She 
simply worshipped this man; not even the great affection she 
bore her bright-eyed quaint little daughter interfered with the su- 
preme passion. To her he was a miracle of all honorable and 
lovable qualities ; never had any man been so generous, heroic, 
self-denying. 

And yet Harry Ormond was a weak man — weak by reason of 
that very impulsiveness which often drove him into pronounced 
and vigorous action. As he leaned back on his couch, after hear- 
ing the pathetic complaint of his little daughter, there were some 
such thoughts as these vaguely flitting before him : 

“ She will be an actress, too ; a real actress, not a made one, 
thank God ! And if I take her back to England as my child, will 
not all the poor would-be actresses of my acquaintance assume a 
fine air of patronage towards her and her mother? But, after 
all, Annie was on the stage — I cannot deny it ; and I cannot 
quarrel with anybody for reminding me of the fact. All the 
tipsy ruffians of the town have sat and stared at her, d — n them ! 
And just as surely is it impossible that I can remain here all my 
life. Annie is very well, and very affectionate ; but I did not 
bargain for a life-long banishment. And one might as well be 
dead as live always out of London.” 

This was the first seed sown ; and it grew rapidly and throve 
in such a mind as his. He became peevish at times ; would oc- 
casionally grumble over the accidents of his present life, and then 
took to grumbling at that itself ; sometimes held long conversa- 
tions with the small Annie about England, and strove to impress 
her with the knowledge that everything fine and pleasant abode 
there ; finally — and this process had been the work of only a 


16 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


week or two — lie announced his intention of going to London on 
business. 

His wife looked up from her work, with dismay on her face ; 
he had never proposed such a thing before. 

“Why cannot Mr. Chetwynd do that business for you also, 
Harry ?” she asked. 

“ Because it is too important,” he said, a little impatiently. 
“ You need not fear so much my going to London for a fort- 
night.” 

He spoke in almost an irritated tone. Indeed, he did not him- 
self know how impatient he was to get away from trammels 
which he had found irksome. 

She went over to him, and placed her hand gently on his head. 

“Am I too jealous of you, Harry? I hate England, because I 
think sometimes you have still a lingering wish to be back there. 
But I do not fear your going ; I know you will be as anxious to 
come to me as I shall be to see you.” 

So Lord Knottingley went forth from that house which he 
never saw again. His wife and daughter were at the window ; 
the former pale and calm, the latter vaguely unhappy over an ex- 
citement and disturbance which she could not understand. As 
the horses started he kissed his hands to them both, tenderly as 
he had kissed them three minutes before on the threshold; and 
as the carriage disappeared round the first turning of the road he 
waved his handkerchief. Annie Napier had seen the last of her 
husband she was to see in this world. She came away from the 
window, still quite calm, but with a strange look on her pale and 
beautiful face ; and then she sat down, and took her little girl on 
her knee, and put her arms round her, and drew her closely to 
her. 

“Mamma, why do you cry?” the little one said, looking up 
into the sad, silent face. 

Her mother did not speak. Was the coming shadow already 
hovering over her ? She drew hey daughter the more closely to 
her ; and the little girl, thrown back on her usual resource for 
expressing her alarm, only murmured disconsolately, “ Oh, Nu, 
Nu, I don’t know what to do !” 


THE MARCHIONESS. 


11 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MARCHIONESS. 

Of what befell Lord Knottingley in England — of the influ- 
ences brought to bear on him, of the acquaintances and relatives 
who counselled him (if he did receive any counsel but from his 
own inclination) — his wife never knew anything. Week after 
week passed, and she heard nothing from England. Again and 
again she wrote : there was no answer. But at length there ar- 
rived at Thun his lordship’s man of business, Mr. Chetwynd, who 
brought with him all the news for which she had sought. 

She was seated at the window overlooking the lake, oppressed 
and almost terrified by the strange shadows which the sunset was 
weaving among the mountains opposite. The sun had so far 
sunk that only the peaks of the splendid hills burned like tongues 
of fire ; and in the deep valleys on the eastern side the thick pur- 
ple darkness was giving birth to a cold gray mist which crept 
along in nebulous masses like the progress of a great army. 
Down at the opposite shore the mist got bluer and denser ; and 
over all the lake the faint haze dulled the sombre glow caught 
from the lurid red above. Up there, high over the mountains, 
there were other mountains and valleys ; and, as she looked, she 
thought she saw an angel, with streaming violet hair which float- 
ed away eastward, and he held to his mouth a trumpet, white as 
silver, which almost touched the peak of the Wetterhorn ; and 
then the long, flowing robes of scarlet and gold became an island, 
with a fringe of yellow light that dazzled her sad eyes. When 
she turned rapidly to see that a servant had brought her a letter, 
the same cloud-visions danced before her, pictured in flames upon 
the darkness of the room. 

“ Will it please your ladyship to see Mr. Chetwynd this even- 
ing or to-morrow morning ?” the servant inquired. 

“ Did Mr. Chetwynd bring this letter ?” she asked, hurriedly. 

“Yes, your ladyship,” said the man. 


18 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Tell him I will see him this evening — by-and-by — in half an 
hour.” 

Standing there, with a faint pink light streaming in upon the 
paper, she read these words : 

“Dear Annie, — Things have changed greatly since I was in 
England before, and my present visit seems to have brought me 
back again to life. It would be impossible for me to let you 
know how many reflections have been suggested to me since I 
came here, and perhaps I ought to go on at once to the main 
purport of my letter. You are my wife — legally married — as 
you know ; and no one can deprive you of the privileges pertain- 
ing to your rank, any more than they can deprive you of my 
esteem and affection. At the same time, you know how very 
exclusive my friends are; and I am convinced that for you to 
seek companionship with them would only bring you discomfort 
and vexation . Now, your own good sense, my dear, will show 
you that I cannot always remain away from England, and allow 
my property to be left in the hands of agents. I see so many 
alterations for the worse, and so much urgent need for improve- 
ment, that I am certain I must remain in England for several 
years, if not for life. Now, my dear, I have a proposal to make 
which you will think cruel at first, but which — I know well — 
you will afterward regard as being the wisest thing you could 
do for all of us. Nobody here seems to know of our marriage ; 
certainly none of my own family seem to take it for granted 
.that I have a wife living; and if I were to bring you over I 
should have to introduce you, with explanations which would be 
awkward to both you and me — which, indeed, would be insulting 
to you. What I desire you to do is to remain in the house you 
now occupy, which shall be yours; a sufficient income — to be 
named by yourself — will be settled upon you ; and Annie will be 
supplied with whatever governesses and masters she requires. I 
hope you will see the propriety of this arrangement; and more 
particularly on account of one circumstance which, unfortunately, 
I am compelled to explain. You know I never allowed you to 
become friends with any of the English people we met in Italy. 
The reason was simply that they, in common with my relatives, 
believed that you and I were not married ; and could I drag you, 
my dear, into the ignominy of an explanation? For the same 


THE MARCHIONESS. 


19 


reason, I hope yon will conceal yonr real rank in the event of 
your ever meeting with English people at Thun; and while I 
wait your answer — which I trust you will calmly consider — I am, 
whatever unhappy circumstances may divide us, your loving hus- 
band, Harry Ormond.” 

She read this letter to the very end, and seemed not to under- 
stand it ; she was only conscious of a dull sense of pain. Then 
she turned away from it — from its callous phrases, its weak 
reasoning, its obvious lies, all of which seemed a message from a 
stranger, not from Harry Ormond — and accidentally she caught 
a glimpse of herself in a mirror. She saw there what recalled 
her to herself; for the ghastly face she beheld, tinged with the 
faint glow of the sunset, was terror-stricken and wild. In the 
next second she had banished that look ; she rung the bell ; and 
then stood erect and firm, with all the fire of her old profession 
tingling in her. 

“ Bid Mr. Chetwynd come here,” she said to the servant. 

In a minute or two the door was again opened, and there en- 
tered a tall, gray-haired man, with a grave and rather kindly ex- 
pression of face. 

She held out the letter, and said, in a cold, clear tone, 

“ Ho you know the contents of this letter ?” 

“ I do, your ladyship,” said he. 

“ And you have been sent to see what money I should take 
for keeping out of the way, and not troubling Lord Knottingley ? 
Very well — ” 

“ I assure your ladyship — ” 

“You need not speak,” she said, with a dignity of gesture 
which abashed him — which made him regard her with the half- 
frightened, half-admiring look she had many a time seen on the 
faces of the scene-shifters after one of her passionate climaxes; 
“ I presume I am still the Marchioness of Knottingley ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“And my husband has commissioned you to receive my in- 
structions ?” 

“ He has, your ladyship ; and if you would only allow me to 
explain the circumstances — ” 

“Mr. Chetwynd, you and I used to talk frankly with each 
other. I hope you will not embarrass yourself by making an 


20 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


apology for his lordship, when he himself has done that so ad- 
mirably in this letter. Now, be good enough to attend to what 
I say. Yon will secure for me and my daughter a passage to 
America by the earliest vessel we can reach from here, and to- 
morrow morning you will accompany us on the first stage of the 
journey. I will take so much money from you as will land us 
in New York; whatever surplus there may be will be returned to 
Lord Knottingley.” 

“ May I beg your ladyship to consider — to remain here until I 
communicate with his lordship ?” 

“ I have considered,” she said, calmly, in a tone which put an 
end to further remonstrance, “ and I do. not choose to remain in 
this house another day.” 

So Mr. Chetwynd withdrew. lie saw nothing of this strange- 
ly self-possessed woman until the carriage was at the door next 
morning, ready to take her from the house which she had cast for- 
ever behind her. 

When he did see her he scarcely recognized her. She was 
haggard and white; her eyes were red and wild; she appeared 
to be utterly broken down. She was dressed in black, and so 
was the little girl she led by the hand. He did not know that 
she had spent the entire night in her daughter’s room, and that 
it was not sleep which had occupied those long hours. 

So it was that Annie Napier and her daughter arrived in 
America; and there she went again upon the stage, under the 
name of Annie Brunei, and earned a living for both of them. 
But the old fire had gone out, and there was not one who recog- 
nized in the actress her who had several years before been the 
idol of London. One message only she sent to her husband; 
and it was written, immediately on her reaching New York in 
these words : 

“ Harry Ormond, — I married you for your love. When you 
take that from me, I do not care to have anything in its place. 
Nor need you try to buy my silence ; I shall never trouble you. 

“Annie Napier.” 

On the receipt of that brief note, Harry Ormond had a severe 
fit of compunction. The freedom of his new life was strong 
upon him, however ; and in process of time he, like most men 


THE MARCHIONESS. 


21 


of his stamp, grew to have a conviction that he was not responsb 
ble for the wrong he had done. If she had wilfully relinquished 
the luxury he offered her, was he to blame ? 

Ten years afterward Lord Knottingley lay very sick. He was 
surrounded by attentive relatives, who, having affectionately in- 
terested themselves in him during his life, naturally expected to 
be paid for their solicitude at his death. But at the last moment 
remorse struck him. As the drowning man is said to be con- 
fronted by a ghastly panorama of his whole life, so he, in these 
last hours, recalled the old tenderness and love of his youth, 
which he had so cruelly outraged. He would have sent for her 
then ; he would have braved the ridicule and indignation which 
he had once so feared ; but it was too late. One act of reparation 
was alone possible. When Harry Ormond, Marquis of Knotting- 
ley, died, it was found that he had left, by a will dated only a 
few days before his death, his whole property to his wife, of 
whom nobody knew anything, accompanying the bequest with 
such expressions of affection and penitence as sorely puzzled his 
lady relatives. 

Not for several months did the lawyers who acted for the 
trustees discover where the missing wife had taken up her abode 
in America; and then an elderly gentleman waited upon the 
actress to break the news of her husband’s death, and to invite 
her to become the mistress of a large property and the wearer of 
a proud title. 

“ How pleased she will be !” he had said to himself, before 
seeing her. 

Once in her presence, however, he did not so hastily judge the 
tender-eyed, beautiful, melancholy woman ; and it was with all the 
delicacy he could command that he told his story, and watched its 
effect upon her handsome, sad face. 

But these ten years of labor had not quite broken Annie Na- 
pier’s spirit. Out of her grief and her tears — for she was a 
woman, and could not help still loving the lover of her youth — 
she rose with her old grandeur of manner, and refused the offer. 
Not theatrically, nor angrily, but simply and definitely, so that the 
messenger from England, perplexed and astonished, could only beg 
of her to think, not of herself, but of her daughter. 

“ My daughter,” she said, perhaps rather bitterly, “ will never 
seek, any more than myself, to go among those people. God 


22 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


knows that it is she alone whom I consider in everything 1 do. 
I have taught her to earn her own bread; and I will teach her 
that her only chance of happiness is to marry, if she does marry, 
in her own profession. You appear to be surprised, sir; but 
what I say to you is not the result of any hasty impulse. Have 
you seen her ?” she added, with a touch of pride. “ Have you 
seen her since you came over ? Some years hence you may find 
ber in England, and she will reap my old triumphs again.” 

“ If you will only consider what you are taking from her — the 
position she would hold — the — ” 

For an instant the large dark eyes of the actress were filled 
with a strange, wistful look ; was she striving — as we often do 
strive — to anticipate the current of years, and look over the long 
future lying in wait for this girl of hers ? 

“ I have considered, sir, many a year ago. She has been 
brought up in perfect ignorance of her birth and name, and there 
is no one of her associates who knows our secret. So she will 
remain.” 

This unlooked-for termination to his mission so astounded the 
lawyer that he could not at first comprehend the decision of her 
tone. 

“You will understand, madam,” he said, “that professionally I 
have no resource but to return to England with your message. 
But may I not beg you to reflect? Is it not possible that you 
have been moved to this decision by a — what shall I say? — a 
view of things which may appear natural to you in your profes- 
sional life, but which is looked upon otherwise by the outside 
world ?” 

“ You think I am led astray by theatrical notions of life?” she 
said, with a smile. “ It was my experience of your ‘ outside 
world’ which made me resolve that my girl should never suffer 
that which I have suffered. The resolution is a very old one, sir. 
But supposing that I should die, would she then have this prop- 
erty — would it belong to her ?” 

“ Undoubtedly, if she chooses to accept it.” 

After a few moments’ silence, the prudent and tender mother 
having calculated every possibility which might affect her daugh- 
ter’s happiness, she said to him : 

“ In that case, sir, I can always provide against her suffering 
want. I will give her to-day your address in England, and tell 


THE ACTRESS. 


23 


her that if at any future time I am taken from her, and if she 
should ever he in need, she can go to you ; and then, sir, you will 
remember who Annie Brunei is.” 

“And you absolutely condemn your daughter to be an actress, 
when a word from you could make her an English lady — ” 

The woman before him drew herself up. 

“ When my daughter ceases to believe that an actress may be 
a lady, it will be time for her to apply to you for the rank she 
has lost.” 


CHAPTER IY. 

THE ACTRESS. 

It was near midnight when an unusually notable and brilliant 
little party sat down to supper in the largest hall of a hotel in 
the neighborhood of Charing Cross. Brilliant the meeting was, 
for beneath the strong lights shone the long white table with its 
gleaming crystal, and silver, and flowers ; and notable it was in 
that the persons sitting there were, every one of them, marked by 
an obvious individualism of face and dress. They were no mere 
company of cultivated nothings, as like each other in brain, cos- 
tume, and manner as the wineglasses before them ; scarcely a 
man or woman of them had not his or her own special character, 
rendered apparent by this or that peculiarity of facial line or in- 
tentional adornment. 

But there was one woman there — or girl* rather, for she was 
clearly not over twenty — whose character you could not easily 
catch. You might watch the expression of her eyes, listen to her 
bright, rapid, cheerful talk, and study her bearing towards her 
associates; and then confess that there was something illusive 
about her — she had not exhibited her real nature to you — you 
knew nothing of her but those superficial characteristics which 
were no index to the spirit underneath. 

Slight in figure, and somewhat pale and dark, there was never- 
theless a certain dignity about her features, and a stateliness in 
her gestures, which gave an almost massive grandeur to her ap- 
pearance. Then her magnificent black hair lay around the clear, 
calm face, which was rendered the more intensely spiritual by 


24 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


large eyes of a deep and tender gray. They were eyes, under 
these long eyelashes, capable of a great sadness, and yet they were 
not sad. There seemed to play around the beautiful, intellectual 
face a bright, superficial, unconscious vivacity ; and she herself 
appeared to take a quite infantine interest in the cheerful trivial- 
ities around her. For the rest, she was dressed in a gleaming 
white moire , with tight sleeves which came down to her tiny 
wrists, and there ended in a faint line of blue; and through the 
great braided masses of her black hair there was wound a thick 
cord of twisted silver, which also had a thread of blue cunningly 
interwoven with it. The artistic possibilities of her fine face and 
complexion were made the most of ; for she was an artist, one of 
the few true artists who have been seen upon our modern stage. 

This was Miss Annie Brunei, who in three months from the 
date of her arrival in this country had won the heart of London. 
The young American actress, with her slight and nervous phy- 
sique, her beautiful head, and the dark lustre of her eyes, was 
photographed, lithographed, and written about everywhere: peo- 
ple went and wept covertly beneath the spell of her voice; for 
once unanimity prevailed among all the critics who were worth 
attention, and they said that the new actress was a woman of 
genius. Who could doubt it that had witnessed the utter self- 
abandonment of her impersonations? She did not come upon 
the stage with a thought about her jewellery, a consciousness of 
her splendid hair, and an eye to the critical corner of the stalls. 
On the stage she was no longer mistress of herself. Her eyes 
deepened until they were almost black ; her face was stirred with 
the white light of passion ; and her words were instinct with the 
tenderness which thrills a theatre to its core. When the sudden 
intensity died down, when she resumed her ordinary speech and 
dress, she seemed to have come out of a trance. Not a trace re- 
mained of that fire and those intonations which were the result 
of unconscious creation ; her eyes resumed their serene, happy 
indifference, her face its pleased, childlike expression. Swift, ac- 
tive, dexterous she was, full of all sorts of genial and merry activ- 
ities ; that kindling of the eye and tremor of the voice belonged 
to the dream-life she led elsewhere. 

The supper was rather a nondescript affair, resembling the lit- 
tle entertainment sometimes given by an author on the produc- 
tion of his new piece. As the play, however, in which Miss Bru 


THE ACTRESS. 


25 


nel had just appeared was “ Romeo and Juliet,” there was a little 
difficulty about the author’s being present to perform the ordi- 
nary duties ; and so the manager’s very good friend, the Graf 
Yon Schonstein, had stepped in and offered to play the part of 
host on the occasion. 

The Graf, indeed, occupied the chair — a large and corpulent 
man, with a broad, fair face, small blue eyes, red hands, a frilled 
shirt, flowered waistcoat, and much jewellery. He had made the 
acquaintance of Miss Brunei during the previous year in America, 
and lost no time in renewing it, now that she had so suddenly 
become so famous in England. Of the Graf, who, it may be 
mentioned, was once a respectable tea-broker in Thames Street, 
E.C., we shall hear more. 

On the left of the chairman sat the manager, a middle-aged 
man, with gray hair and a melancholy face ; on the right Miss 
Brunei, and next to her a young man of the name of Will Aner- 
ley, a friend of Count Schonstein. Then followed several mem- 
bers of the company, an elderly little woman who officiated as 
Miss Brunei’s guardian, two or three critics, and a young man 
who spoke to nobody, but kept his eyes intently fixed upon a 
charming soubrette (with whom he had quarrelled some days be- 
fore) who was wickedly flirting with Mercutio. There was no 
lack of jest and talk down both sides of the table, for the wine- 
glasses were kept well filled ; and occasionally there rung out, 
clear and full, the mellifluous laughter of the Nurse — a stout, big, 
red-faced woman, who had a habit of using her pocket handker- 
chief where a table-napkin might have been more appropriate — 
as she cracked her small jokes with Benvolio, who sat opposite 
to her. Then Friar Laurence, who had thrown aside his robe 
and become comic, happened to jolt a little Champagne into Lady 
Capulet’s lap ; and the angrier she grew over his carelessness, the 
more did the people laugh, until she herself burst out with a big, 
good-natured guffaw. 

Meanwhile the small clique at the upper end of the table was 
engaged in a conversation by itself, Count Schonstein appealing 
to the manager vehemently : 

“ Was I not right in begging you to give the public Miss Bru- 
nei’s Juliet ? There never was such a triumph, Miss Brunei ; I 
assure you, you have taken London by storm. And with the pub- 
lic satisfied, will the critics object ? You will not see a dissentient 

2 


26 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


voice in the papers on Monday morning. What do you say to 
that, Mr. Helstone ?” 

The man whom he addressed had forsaken the cluster of his 
brother critics, and was busily engaged in amusing the pretty sou - 
brette, whom he had entirely drawn away from poor Mercutio. 

“ Why,” he said, with a faint smile, apparently bent upon puz- 
zling the gorgeous-looking gentleman who had imprudently in- 
terrupted him, “ I should be sorry to see such unanimity, for Miss 
Brunei’s sake. Conscientious journalism, like every conscientious 
journalist, knows that there are two sides to every question, and 
will do its best to write on both. The odds will be the truth.” 

“ Do you mean to tell me,” asked the count, somewhat pomp- 
ously, “ that you have no more conscience than to advocate dif- 
ferent things in different papers ?” 

“ If I write what I know on one side of a subject in one paper, 
and write up the other side in another paper, I free myself from 
a charge of suppressing truth ; and I — ” 

Whereupon the soubrette , with the brown curls and the wicked 
blue eyes, pulled his sleeve and made him upset a claret glass. 

“ What a clumsy creature you are !” she whispered. “ And 
what is the use of talking to that ridiculous old fool ? Tell me, 
do you think Miss Brunei handsome ?” 

“ I think she has the face of a woman of genius,” he said, with 
a glance of genuine admiration. 

“ Bah ! that means nothing. Don’t you think she shows her 
teeth on purpose when she laughs ? and then those big, soft eyes 
make her look affectedly sentimental. Why do you grin so ? I 
suppose I am not as handsome as she is; but I wonder if she 
could put on my gloves and boots ?” 

“You have adorable hands and feet, Miss Featherstone ; every- 
body allows that.” 

“Thank you. They say that every ugly woman has pretty 
hands and feet.” 

“ Nature leaves no creature absolutely unprotected, my dear. 
Let me give you some vanilla cream.” 

“You are a brute. I hate you!” 

“ I have generally found that when a young lady says she hates 
you, she means she loves you — if you have a good income.” 

“ I have generally found that when a young lady rejects her 
suitor because of his want of brain, he instantly says she cast him 


THE ACTRESS. 


21 


off because of bis want of money. But I wish you’d keep quiet, 
and let me hear what Mr. Melton is saying about next week. If 
he thinks I’ll play the people in with a farce, as well as play in 
the burlesque, he is mistaken. However, since you people have 
taken to write up Miss Brunei, she will order everything ; and if 
the poor dear thinks seven too soon for her neryel after tea, I 
suppose she will get played whatever she wants.” 

“Spiteful thing! You’re thinking of her handsome face and 
eyes and hair : why don’t you look in the mirror and calm your- 
self?” 

The little group at the head of the table had now split itself 
into two sections ; and while Count Schonstein talked almost ex- 
clusively to Mr. Melton, Miss Brunei was engaged in what was 
apparently an interesting conversation with Will Anerley, who sat 
next her. But a patient observer would have noticed that the 
stout and pompous count kept his eyes pretty well fixed upon 
the pair on his right ; and that he did not seem wholly pleased 
by the amused look which was on Miss Brunei’s face as she 
spoke, in rather a low tone, to her companion : 

“ You confess you are disappointed with me. That is quite nat- 
ural ; but tell me how I differ from what you expected me to be.” 

She turned her large, lustrous eyes upon him, and there was a 
faint smile on her face. 

.“Well,” he said, “on the stage you are so unlike any one I 
ever saw that I did not expect to find you in private life like — 
like any one else, in fact.” 

“ Do you mean that I am like the young ladies you would ex- 
pect to find in your friends’ house, if you were asked to go and 
meet some strangers ?” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ You are too kind,” she said, looking down. “ I have always 
been taught, and I know, that private people and professional 
people are separated by the greatest differences of character and 
habits; and that if I went among those young ladies of whom 
you speak, I should feel like some dreadfully wicked person who 
had got into heaven by mistake and was very uncomfortable. 
Have you any sisters ?” 

“ One. Well, she is not my sister, but a distant relation, who 
has been brought up in my father’s house as if she were my 
sister ?” 


28 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“Am I like her?” 

“ No. I mean, you are not like her in appearance ; but in 
manner, and in what you think, and so fx>rth, you would find her 
as like yourself as possible. I cannot understand your strange 
notion that some unaccountable barrier exists between you and 
other people.” 

“ That is because you have never lived a professional life,” she 
said. “ I know, myself, that there is the greatest difference be- 
tween me now and when I am in one of my parts. Then I am 
almost unconscious of myself — I scarcely know what I’m doing; 
and now I should like to go on sitting like this, making fun with 
you or with anybody, or amusing myself in any way. Do you 
know, I fancy nothing would give me so much delight as battle- 
door and shuttlecock if I might have it in my own house; but 
I am afraid to propose such a thing to my guardian, Mrs. Christ- 
mas, or she w^ould think I was mad. Did you never wish you 
were only ten years old again, that you might get some fun with- 
out being laughed at ?” 

“ I used constantly to go bird’s-nesting in Russia, when we were 
too lazy to go on a regular shooting- party, and never enjoyed 
anything half so much. And you know cricket has been made 
a manly game in order to let men think themselves boys for an 
hour or two.” 

“ I should like you to become acquainted with my dear old 
Christmas — do you see her down there? — and then you would 
know how a professional life alters one. It was she, not my 
dear mother, who taught me all the gestures, positions, and elo- 
cution which are the raw material we actresses use to deceive you. 
How she scolds me when I do anything that differs from her 
prescriptions! And indeed she cannot understand how one, in 
the hurry of a part, should abandon one’s self to chance, and for- 
get the ordinary ‘ business.’ Now the poor old creature has to 
content herself with a little delicate compliment or two instead 
of the applause of the pit ; and I am sometimes put to my wits’ 
end to say something kind to her, being her only audience. 
Won’t you come and help me, some afternoon ?” -» 

The unconscious audacity of the proposal, so quietly and so 
simply expressed, staggered the young man ; and he could only 
manage to mention something about the very great pleasure it 
would give him to do so. 


THE ACTRESS. 


29 


He was very much charmed with his companion ; but he was 
forced to confess to himself that she did, after all, differ a good 
deal from the gentlewomen whom he was in the habit of meet- 
ing. Nor was it wonderful that she should : the daughter of 
an actress, brought up from her childhood among stage -tradi- 
tions, driven at an early period, by her mother’s death, to earn 
her own living, and having encountered for several years all the 
vicissitudes and experience of a half-vagrant life, it would have 
been a miracle had she not caught up some angular peculiarities 
from this rough-and-ready education. Anerley was amazed to 
find that easy audacity and frankness of speech, her waywardness 
and occasional eccentricity of behavior, conjoined with an almost 
ridiculous simplicity. The very attitude her Bohemianism led 
her to adopt towards the respectable in life was in itself the result 
of a profound, childlike ignorance ; and, as he afterward discov- 
ered, was chiefly the result of the tuition of a tender and anxious 
mother, who was afraid of her daughter ever straying from the 
folds of a profession which is so generous and kindly to the des- 
titute and unprotected. All this, and much more, he was after- 
ward to learn of the young girl who had so interested him. In 
the mean time she seemed to him to be a spoiled child, who had 
something of the sensitiveness and sagacity of a woman. 

“Look how he blushes!” said the charming soubrette to her 
companion. 

“ Who ?” 

“ The gentleman beside Miss Brunei.” 

“Are you jealous, that you watch these two so closely?” 

“ I’m not ; but I do consider him handsome — handsomer than 
any man I know. He is not smooth, and fat, and polished, like 
most gentlemen who do nothing. He looks like an engine-driver 
cleaned — and then his great brown mustache and his thick hair 
— no, I’ll tell you what he’s like ; he is precisely the Ancient 
Briton you see in bronzes, with the thin face and the matted 
hair — ” 

“And the scanty dress. I suppose the ancient Britons, like 
Scotchmen nowadays, wore an indelicate costume, in order to 
save cloth.” * 

“ I do consider him handsome ; but her ! And as for her be- 
ing a great actress, and a genius, and all that, I don’t consider 
her to be a bit better than any of us.” 


30 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ If that is the case, I can quite understand and approve your 
depreciation of her.” 

“ I will box your ears !” 

“ Don’t. They might tell tales ; and you know I’m married.” 

“ Tant pis pour toi” 

The Ancient Briton had meanwhile recovered his equanimi- 
ty ; and both he and Miss Brunei had joined in an argument Mr. 
Melton was setting forth about the deliciousness of being with- 
out restraint. The grave manager, under the influence of a little 
Champagne, invariably rose into the realm of abstract proposi- 
tions; and indeed his three companions, all of them in a merry 
mood, helped him out with a dozen suggestions and confirma- 
tions. 

“And worst of all,” said Miss Brunei, “I dislike being bound 
down by time. Why must I go home just now, merely because 
it is late ? I should like at this very moment to go straight out 
into the country, without any object, and without any prospect of 
return.” 

“ And why not do so ?” cried Count Schonstein. “ My brougham 
can be brought round in a few minutes ; let us four get in and 
drive straight away out of London — anywhere.” 

“A capital idea,” said Melton. “What do you say, Miss 
Brunei ?” 

“ I will go with pleasure,” she replied, with bright childish fun 
in her eyes. “ But w’e must take Mrs. Christmas with us. And 
that will be five ?” 

“ Then let me go outside and smoke,” said Will Anerley. 

The supper party now broke up ; and the ladies went off to 
get their bonnets, wrappers, and cloaks. In a few minutes Count 
Schonstein’s brougham was at the door; and Miss Brunei, hav- 
ing explained to Mrs. Christmas the position of affairs, introduced 
her to Will Anerley. She had come forward to the door of the 
brougham, and Anerley saw a very small bright- eyed woman, 
with remarkably white hair, who was in an extreme nervous flut- 
ter. He was about to go outside, as he had promised, when 
Count Schonstein made the offer, which his position demanded, 
to go instead. 

“ Yes, do,” said Miss Brunei, putting her hand lightly on Will 
Anerley’s arm. 

The count was, therefore, taken at his word ; Anerley remained 


THE ACTRESS. 


31 


by the young actress’s side, and, Mrs. Christmas being dragged 
in, away rolled the brougham. 

“ And wherever are you going at this time of night, Miss An- 
nie !” said the old woman, in amazement. 

“ For a drive into the country, mother. Look how bright it is !” 

And bright it was. There was no moon as yet, but there was 
clear starlight ; and as they drove past the Green Park, the long 
rows of ruddy lamps hung in the far darkness like strings of 
golden points, the counterpart of the gleaming silver points above. 
And there, away in the north, glimmered the pale jewels of Cas- 
siopeia ; the white star on Andromeda’s forehead stood out from 
the dark sea ; Orion coldly burned in the south, and the red eye 
of Aldebaran throbbed in the strange twilight. The dark-gray 
streets, and the orange lamps, and the tall houses, and the solitary 
figures of men and women hurried past and disappeared ; but the 
great blue vault, with its twinkling eyes, accompanied the carriage 
windows, rolled onward with them, and always glimmered in. 

This mad frolic was probably pleasant enough for every one of 
the merry little party inside the vehicle ; but it could scarcely be 
very fascinating to the victimized count, who found himself driv- 
ing through the chill night-air in company with his own coach- 
man. Perhaps, however, he wished to earn the gratitude of Miss 
Brunei by this dumb obedience to her whim ; for he did not seek 
to arrest or alter the course of the brougham as it was driven 
blindly out into the country. He could hear the laughter from 
within the carriage, for they were all in the best of moods — except, 
perhaps, Miss Brunei, whom the sight of the stars rather saddened. 

At length they came to a toll-bar. Melton put his head out 
and asked the count where they were. 

“ Hounslow.” 

“ Is that the Bell Inn ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then suppose we get out, wake the people up, and give the 
horses a rest, while we have a little trip on foot to Hounslow 
Heath?” 

“ Is not that where all the murders and robberies used to be 
committed ?” Miss Brunei was heard to say. 

“ This is the very inn,” said Will Anerley, “ which the gentle- 
men of the road used to frequent ; but, unfortunately, the Heath 
has been all enclosed. There is no more Heath.” 


32 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ We shall find something that will do for it,” said Melton, 
as the party left the brougham and passed down the opposite 
road. 

Once out of the glare of the lamp at the toll-bar, they had 
nothing to guide them but the cold, clear starlight. Black lay 
the hedges on either side ; black stood the tall trees against the 
sky ; blacker still the deep ditch which ran along the side of the 
path, or disappeared under the gravelled pathway leading up to 
some roadside cottage. How singularly the light laughter of the 
little party smote upon the deep, intense silence of the place ; 
and what a strange contrast there was between their gay aban- 
donment and the sombre gloom around them ! There was some- 
thing weird and striking running through the absurdity of this 
incomprehensible excursion. 

“There,” said Melton, going up to a gate, and peering over 
into a vague, dark meadow, “ is a bit of the old Heath, I know. 
W^s it here, I wonder, that Claude Duval danced his celebrated 
dafice with the lady ?” 

“ Let us suppose it was,” said the count. “ And why should 
we not have a dance now on the Heath ? Mr. Melton, will you 
give us some music ?” 

“ With pleasure,” said the manager, opening the gate, and al- 
lowing his merry companions to pass into the meadow. 

They went along until they were within a short distance of a 
clump of trees ; and then, the count having been ingeniously 
compelled to take Mrs. Christmas as his partner, Miss Brunei be- 
ing Anerley’s vis-a-vis , the manager proceeded to sing a set of 
quadrilles in rather an unmelodious manner, varying la , la, la, with 
tow, row, row. The great, pompous count puffed, and blew, and 
guffawed ; the little Mrs. Christmas danced with a prim and grave 
precision ; while all did their best to help out the figures, and 
stumbled, and set each other right again, and laughed right heart- 
ily over the mad performance. 

Then there was a sudden shriek, clear and sharp, that rung 
through the darkness; the dancing suddenly ceased; and Aner- 
ley sprung forward just in time to prevent Miss Brunei from sink- 
ing to the ground, her face pale as death. 

“Did you not see it?” she gasped, still trembling. “Some- 
thing white flashed past through the frrees there — in a moment — 
and it seemed to have no shape.” 


ST. MARY-KIRBY. 


33 


11 Hy Jove, I saw it too !” said Melton, who had abruptly ceased 
his singing ; “ and for the life of me I can’t imagine what it was.” 

“A white cow,” suggested Anerley. 

“ I tell you it flew past like a streak of lightning,” said Melton. 

“ More likely a white doe belonging to the park over there,” 
said the count, who was inwardly the most terrified person 
present. 

“ Let us get away from here,” said Miss Brunei, who had re- 
covered her self-composure, but was very grave. “ Whatever it 
was, the grass is too wet for us to remain.” 

So they left the meadow, and walked rather silently back to 
the toll-bar, got into the brougham, and were driven to their re- 
spective homes. 


CHAPTER V. 

ST. M A RY-KIRB Y. 

Champagne has many good qualities, but none more marked 
than the mild and temporary nature of the stimulus it affords. 
The bright and cheerful excitement it produces — so long as it is 
neither Russian Champagne, nor one of those highly ingenious 
products which chemistry and the wit of man have devised — does 
not last so long as to interfere with any serious occupation, even 
should that be merely sleep ; while it involves none of the gloomy 
reaction which too often haunts the sparkle of other wines with 
a warning shadow. When Will Anerley got up on the morning 
following the wild escapade on Hounslow Heath, it was not in 
dulgence in wine which smote him with a half-conscious remorse. 
He had neither a throbbing headache nor a feverish pulse. But 
as he looked out of his bedroom window and saw the pale sun 
glimmering down on the empty streets, the strange calm of a 
Sunday morning — touching even in the cramped thoroughfares 
of London — fell upon him, and he thought of the hectic gayety 
of the previous night, and knew that all the evening one tender 
girlish heart had been wearying for his coming, away down in a 
quiet Kentish vale. 

His absence was the more inexcusable in that it was uncertain 
how soon he might have to leave England. He was a civil engi- 

2 * 


34 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


neer ; and from the time he had left the apprentice stool his life 
had been a series of foreign excursions. He had been two years 
in Turkey, another year in Canada, six months in Russia, and so 
on ; and at this moment he had been but a short time home from 
Wallachia, whence he had returned with his face browner, his 
frame tougher, than ever. There was little of the young Eng- 
lishman about him. There was a Celtic intensity in him which 
had long ago robbed him of the loose fat, the lazy gait, the apa- 
thetic indifference which generally fall to the lot of lads born and 
brought up as he had been ; and now — with his big brown mus- 
tache, thick hair, and hazel eyes, and with that subdued determi- 
nation in his look, which had made the little soubrette call him 
an Ancient Briton — he was a man whom some would call hand- 
some, but whom most people would admire chiefly on account of 
the intelligence, firmness of character, and determination written 
upon his face. 

He dressed and breakfasted hastily, got a cab, and was just 
in time to catch the train. After nearly an hour’s drive down 
through Kent — pleasant enough on that bright spring morning 
— he reached Horton, the station nearest to St. Mary-Kirby. 

Horton stands on the top of a hill sloping down into the val- 
ley in which lies St. Mary-Kirby ; and if you climb, as Will Aner- 
ley did, to the top of a coal-heap which generally stands beside 
the empty trucks of the station, you will see the long wooded 
hollow from end to end, with its villages, churches, and breadths 
of field and meadow. It was not to look again, however, on that 
pretty bit of scenery which he knew so well that he scrambled to 
the top of the coals, and stood there, with his hand shading his 
eyes from the sunlight. It was Dove Anerley he wished to see 
come along the valley, on her way to church ; and he waited there 
to discover what route she should take, that so he might inter- 
cept her. 

Yet there seemed to be no living thing in the quiet valley. 
Sleepily lay the narrow river in its winding channel, marked by 
twin rows of pollard willows, now green with their first leaves ; 
sleepily lay the thin blue smoke above the far white cottages and 
the gray churches ; sleepily lay the warm sunlight over the ruddy 
ploughed fields, the green meadows, the dark fir-wood along the 
top of the hill ; and sleepily it struck on the great, gleaming 
chalk-pit on the side of the incline ; while a faint blue haze hung 


ST. MAEY-KIRBY. 


35 


around the dim horizon, half hiding the white specks of houses 
on the distant uplands. It was a beautiful picture in the tender 
light of the young spring ; but there was no Dove Anerley there. 

He looked at his watch. 

11 Half-past ten,” he thought ; “ and as our church is under re- 
pair, she is sure to walk to Woodhill church. But if I go down 
into the valley, I shall be sure to miss her.” 

As he spoke, there was visible a tiny speck of gray and brown 
crossing a broad meadow near the river ; and almost at the same 
moment the subdued and distant music of the church-bells float- 
ed up on the air. Will Anerley leaped from the coal-heap to the 
ground ; and then straight down the hill he went, making free use 
of the fields on his way. 

He suddenly found that the still valley was full of life, and 
sound, and gladness ; that the morning was a miracle of morn- 
ings ; that the breath of the sweet spring air seemed laden with 
the secret odors of innumerable flowers. And, indeed, as he 
walked on, there was plenty to delight him, even had Dove An- 
erley not been there. For the lamblike March had bequeathed 
to his fickle sister a legacy of golden weather, and she now car- 
ried it in her open hand, sharing it with all of us. The orchards 
were white with bloom, here and there a rose-red apple-tree among 
the snowy bunches of the pears; the meadows were thick with 
daisies and cowslips, the gray sheep throwing sharp black shad- 
ows on the glowing green ; the tall elms, sprinkled over with 
young leaves, rose from rough and ragged earth banks that were 
covered with withered brier and glistening celandine, dull colts- 
foot and ruddy dead-nettle ; the stately chestnuts had burst their 
resinous buds, and were already showing brown spikes of closed 
flowers ; along the hedges, where the blackbird was nursing her 
young, and the thrush sitting on her second nestful of blue eggs, 
the blossoms of the blackthorn sparkled here and there like white 
stars among the rich, thick green of the elm ; and through all 
these colors and lights and shadows ran and hummed and sung 
the coarse cawing of rooks, the murmur of bees, the splashing of 
the river down at the mill, and the silvery music of a lark which 
hung as if suspended by a thread from the cold, clear blue above. 

St. Mary-Kirby was just visible, and no more. You could see 
the quaint old mill down by the river side, and near it an ancient 
farm-house, with black cattle and horses in the yard, and white 


36 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


pigeons flying about tbe rusty -red tiles of tbe farm buildings. 
Farther up, the old gray church, built of “ Kentish rag,” shone 
brightly in the sunshine ; and then, among the trees, you caught 
a glimpse of the cottages, of Mr. Anerley’s house, fronting the vil- 
lage green, and of the old inn with its swaying sign. There is 
not in Kent a more thoroughly English village than St. Mary- 
Kirby ; and one, at least, of its inhabitants used to pray fervently 
every Sunday morning that no railway should ever come near its 
precincts. 

When Will Anerley reached the bottom of the valley, he found 
a number of St. Mary-Kirby people walking, in isolated groups, 
towards Woodhill church ; but one only of these people had 
chosen a somewhat circuitous route through the meadows lying 
on the south side of the river. Why she had chosen this route 
was probably known only to herself ; but, at any rate, Will paused 
by the side of a stile to which the path through the meadows led. 
He had recognized from a considerable distance the slate-gray 
silk dress and brown velvet jacket which she wore ; and now, as 
he watched her coming along, he saw that she, too, had recognized 
him, and that there was a pleased look in her eyes. 

“ Why did you come this way ?” he asked, as she drew near. 

“ Because I thought I should meet you,” she replied, with a 
frank smile. 

He helped her up and down the rude wooden steps, and as she 
alighted upon the other side she suffered him to touch her cheek 
with his lips. 

“ Good-morning, Dove.” 

“ Good - morning, Will. I made up my mind to scold you 
dreadfully ; and all the way over from St. Mary I have been 
thinking what I should say to you ; and now I haven’t it in my 
heart to say a single word.” 

“ Heaght ” for “ heart,” she said, and “ woghd ” for “ word ;” 
and there was a quaint softness in this purring, half-foreign pro- 
nunciation which made her utterances all the more tender, and 
seemed to harmonize with the childlike prettiness of the large 
violet eyes set in the delicate face, which was surrounded by crisp 
and wavy light-brown hair. 

“ That’s a good girl,” he said ; and then she put her hand on 
his arm, and they walked away between the green hedges, tow- 
ards Woodhill church. 


ST. MARY-KIRBY. 37 

It was at a concert in St. James’s Hall that I first saw Dove 
Anerley ; and while the people sung “ Athalie,” I sat and won- 
dered what was the story written on that beautiful, almost sad 
face. It was one of those rare faces which tantalize you in the 
very act of admiring them. There was nothing in it of that 
mature, vigorous, definite beauty of form and complexion which 
a man may calmly observe and criticise in the face of a woman ; 
but a tender uncertainty, a half-suggested and shrinking loveli- 
ness, which made one vaguely conscious that this frail and beauti- 
ful smile of nature might suddenly vanish from the fine features. 
It was not that the girl seemed unwell, or even in any degree 
fragile ; but simply that one, in looking at her face, could not 
help regretting that her loveliness was not less delicate and more 
pronounced, that there was not more life and less sensitiveness in 
her large violet eyes. How beautiful she looked that evening! 
The passionate music seemed to have called up a flush upon her 
bright complexion, and lent some strange wistfulness to her big 
eyes ; and then, when she turned to her companions and smiled, 
her pretty mouth and nut-white teeth might have driven a painter 
mad. Indeed, I know of at least one artist then present who for- 
got all about Mendelssohn in trying so to fix her expression on 
his memory that he might afterward reproduce it on canvas — her 
expression, her face, and the loose golden-brown hair bound down 
by a band of dark-blue velvet. It was two years afterward that 
accident threw me in the way of the Anerleys. I had never for- 
gotten the meaning apparently written on that sensitive face ; but 
Dove’s story, as I then heard it, differed entirely from what I had 
imagined. 

“ Why have you come alone this morning ?” said Will Anerley 
to his companion, as they walked. 

“You know papa never goes to church,” said the young girl. 
“And mamma has never gone to hear Mr. Oldham since he spoke 
to her about the Athanasian Creed. I suppose you did not hear 
about that since you came home ?” 

“ No,” said Will ; though he had an idea why his mother — 
whom Dove had also been taught to call “ mamma ” — feared the 
Athanasian Creed. 

“ You know,” continued the girl, very seriously, “ how anxious 
mamma is because papa won’t go to church, and because of his 
studies and the strange things he says at times ; and sometimes 


38 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


she gets very sad about it. It is the only thing she is ever sad 
about; and when I tell her that there can’t be much wrong in 
what so good a man believes, she only gets the sadder, and some- 
times cries a little bit. Well, this Sunday morning she and I 
were talking about it all the way to church, and she was very 
much disturbed. I don’t think she had ever paid any attention 
to the Athanasian Creed before ; but on that morning Mr. Oldham 
read it, and I saw her look strangely at him and at the book. 
Then all at once her face got quite white, she shut the book, and 
without a word to me walked out of the church and went straight 
home.” 

“ And I suppose my father laughed a little, and tried to make 
her believe that he had already constructed some theoretical fire- 
escape from the dangers with which he was threatened?” 

“Mr. Oldham came over next day to call upon mamma, and he 
was talking very seriously to her, and making her very miserable 
— indeed, she was crying nearly all the time — when papa came 
into the room.” 

“ Oh ! Was it by the door that Mr. Oldham left ?” 

“ What do you mean ? Papa stood there, with that curious 
smile he has on his face when he puzzles and perplexes people, 
you know; and in a few minutes Mr. Oldham was in a terrible 
rage. I remember distinctly one thing papa said. ‘ Mr. Oldham,’ 
he said, with a sort of twinkle in his eye, ‘ I am not surprised 
that you have the Athanasian Creed in your service ; for clergy- 
men, like other men, must be allowed the use of bad language 
occasionally. But you should indulge yourself privately, and not 
frighten women when they go to pray in your church.’ ” 

“ How very wicked of him ! But then, Dove, Mr. Oldham be- 
longs to the next parish ; and he had no business to go poaching 
on Mr. Bexley’s manor.” 

“And so very anxious she is about you also, Will. She is 
sometimes very sad about papa ; but she can’t help seeing what a 
good man he is. She says to me that you are young, and that if 
you grow up to believe what he believes, you may not be quite 
the same — you know, dear, that is only a feeling she has.” 

“ Who wouldn’t be orthodox to please such a mother ?” said 
Will. 

“ And I, too,” said the girl, with a touch of color in her cheek, 
and in rather a lower voice, “ I should be grieved to think that — 


ST. MARY-KIRBY. 


39 


that — that you did not care about going to church, and that you 
did not believe as we do.” 

“What should have made you think about all these things?” 
asked Anerley, with some astonishment. 

“Well, when you wrote to us from Jassy, saying you were 
coming home, mamma came to papa and begged him to lock up 
all those dangerous books he is so fond of. ‘ My dear,’ he said 
to her, ‘Will knows more about such matters than I know; for 
he has breathed the new atmosphere of these new times, whereas 
I have nothing to help me but reading.’ Is it true, Will ?” 

“ Is what true ? I tell you, darling, I will be whatever you 
wish me to be ; so don’t distress your mind about it.” 

It was their arrival at the church-door which stopped this con- 
versation. They entered, and seated themselves in a tall, damp 
pew, while a small organ was sending its smooth and solemn 
notes through the hushed little building. 

They were not “engaged,” these two; but themselves and ev- 
erybody connected with them looked forward to their marriage 
as a matter of course. Dove Anerley was the daughter of a dis- 
tant relative of Mrs. Anerley’s, who had gladly escaped from a 
variety of misfortunes by the easy gate -way of death; and Mr. 
Anerley had adopted the child, brought her up, and grown pas- 
sionately fond of her. He was a man of very peculiar notions, 
which had earned for him among the vulgar the charitable title 
of atheist and materialist ; and so this dangerous and wicked per- 
son sat down one day before his son, when the young man had 
come home from college, and said to him, 

“Attend to what I am going to say, Will. You have a good 
prospect before you : you have a sound constitution, a tolerable 
education, and plenty of natural ability. I am not going to spoil 
your chances in life by letting you fancy that you will have any 
money at my death — do you understand? I will start you in 
any profession you choose ; thereafter you must fight your own 
battle, as befits a man; and whatever I leave will go to your 
mother and to Dove. If you were a fool, I should make some 
provision for you; as it is, I won’t.” 

“ Why, you don’t suppose, father, I would rob either Dove or 
my mother of anything you could give them ?” 

That was all that passed between the two men on the subject ; 
and in time it came to be regarded as a matter of course that 


40 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


Dove Anerley was to inherit whatever wealth her foster - fathei 
should leave behind him, irrespective of the provision for his 
widow. 

Had Will Anerley stayed at home, and been accustomed to re- 
gard Dove as his sister, he would never have thought of marrying 
her. But even in his boyhood he had been of a singularly active 
and inquiring character; always anxious to study new subjects, 
new scenes, new faces ; never satisfied with any achievement as 
an ultimate result; and so, his apprenticeship completed, instead 
of hiring himself out as an assistant to the engineer of some rail- 
way or other company, and spending a dull life in a dingy office, 
he threw himself boldly upon the world, and went up and down, 
acquiring such knowledge as no man can gain by the study of 
books. Nor was it only in professional directions that his in- 
quiries extended. He had caught what is called “ the spirit ” of 
these times ; was full of vague idealisms, particularly of a philan- 
thropic kind; and was moved by a restless desire to trace back 
to first principles the commonest conditions of modern existence. 
That is a phase through which most young men who read books 
pass. Now and again only do we find a man of sufficient strength 
of character to preserve those gentle tendencies against the rough 
wear and tear of travel and its consequent experience. Great, 
therefore, was his delight to have a profession which allowed him 
to move freely about ; and wherever he went the tender remem- 
brance of Dove Anerley went with him. 

As for her, she had never taken any pains to conceal from any- 
body her fondness for him — a fondness which had grown to be a 
part of her life. He was mixed up in all the finest aspirations, 
he was the creator of all the noblest idealisms, of her too deli- 
cately sensitive organization. In that supreme religious exalta- 
tion which is produced by fine music, by earnest prayer, or by a 
beautiful sunset, his was the human face towards which, uncon- 
sciously to herself, she looked for the divine sympathy and com- 
passion which in such moments man begs from the Deity. Even 
now, as they stood in the old oaken pew, and as she sung sweetly 
and clearly that tenderest of hymns — 

“ Abide with me. Fast falls the eventide ; 

The darkness deepens ; Lord, with me abide ! 

When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 

Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me l” 


ST. MARY-KIRBY. 


41 


— was she guilty of any great crime in involuntarily making him 
the object of that impassioned cry ? Her love was her religion, 
her religion her love ; she knew not how to distinguish between 
them, and, like the old Romans, had but one word to describe this 
holiest feeling of her nature. 

“ Now, Will,” she said, cheerfully, as the people streamed out 
of the close little building into the sweet -smelling air, “let us 
have a nice long walk through Woodhill Wood on our way 
home ; it is covered with flowers just now ; and then you will 
tell me why you did not come down last night. Everybody ex- 
pected you, and dinner was as dull as it could be without you. 
The Hepburns were over, you know, and Mr. Drysdale, and they 
came half an hour too soon and sat in the drawing-room, and 
talked of nothing but the number of breeding partridges, and the 
condition of the trout, and how they hoped the orchards wouldn’t 
suffer by this early hot weather. Only big John Hepburn — 
who does nothing in the world but shoot and go to hounds, you 
know — made papa laugh very much by stretching his long legs, 
yawning, and saying disconsolately, ‘Ah, yes, Mr. Anerley, we’re 
getting into the dreary summer months.’ He couldn’t under- 
stand why papa laughed, and said he had made no joke he was 
aware of.” 

By this time they had walked through the tall green grass of 
the church -yard, had clambered up the hill a bit, and left the 
warm sunshine for the cool shade of the wood. Only here and 
there did the sunlight glimmer down through the dense forest of 
young oak and birch ; but there was no need of sunlight to make 
that tangled carpeting of moss and grass and wild-flowers any the 
brighter. All around them, and as far as they could see down 
the glades between the trees, the earth was thick with anemones 
and great clusters of primroses, here and there a few wild hya- 
cinths among patches of tenderly veined wood-sorrel, and every- 
where the blush - colored cuckoo-flower with its coronet of pale 
pink buds. Hushed and still the place was, except when a jay 
went screaming from one tall tree to another, or some cawing 
rook flew past through the width of fleecy blue-and-white over- 
head. 

“ I stayed in town, then, Dove, to go to a little supper, and 
there I met Miss Brunei.” 

“ The actress whom everybody is talking about ?” 


42 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“Yes.” 

“You met her privately?” 

“ Yes ; why should that astonish you ?” 

“Do tell me what she is like — what she said to you — did she 
speak to you ?” 

“ She is a very handsome girl, with splendid hair and eyes, and 
the most charming manner. What amused me chiefly was the 
half-maternal way in which she talked to me, who might have 
been her father, and the airs of profound experience which she 
quite unconsciously gave herself. Then, all the time she was 
ready to be amused by the tiniest things ; indeed, it was quite a 
pleasure to sit near her, and watch the comfortable, self-satisfied, 
almost childish way in which she delighted herself with every- 
thing.” 

Will spoke quite warmly ; his companion was silent for some 
time afterward. 

“ Why are you so quiet this morning, Dove ?” he asked. 

“ Am I more than usually quiet ?” she said. 

“ Indeed,” he continued, without taking further notice of the 
matter, “ I was vexed with myself for not coming down last even- 
ing. The fact is, I may not have many Saturday afternoons down 
at the old place before I leave again. I am thinking of going to 
Honduras — ” 

“ To Honduras ?” she repeated, rather faintly ; “ why should 
you go to Honduras ?” 

“ They want to sink some artesian-wells about — ” 

“Is there no one in Honduras can sink artesian - wells ?” she 
asked, with a scarcely concealed pout of vexation. “Your father 
says you have thrown away plenty of your life in going abroad, 
and that now you should settle here and get up a good connec- 
tion in your own country.” 

“ Although Miss Brunei made me feel old by her efforts to play 
the mother to me, Dove, I am young enough to feel a touch of 
wandering blood stir in me yet.” 

“Send Miss Brunei to make the artesian - wells !” said Dove, 
with a quick flush on her face, and then she broke out laughing, 
partly because she was amused at herself, and partly because she 
was out of humor with him. 

Indeed, nothing delighted him so much as to see a little harm- 
less break in the even gentleness of the young girl’s manner. It 


CHESTNUT BANK. 


43 


was like the rustling of a piece of tissue-paper, or the crumpling 
of a rose-leaf : the little petulances of which she was sometimes 
guilty were but a source of amusement to both of them. 


CHAPTER VI. 

CHESTNUT BANK. 

At last they reached the brow of the hill, and beneath them 
lay St. Mary-Kirby, the sunlight falling lightly on the gray church, 
the white wooden cottages, the broad green common, and on two 
tall-necked swans floating on the glass-like mill-head. 

Mr. Anerley’s house — known in the neighborhood as Chestnut 
Bank — was separated from the common by a large circular pond 
which was fed by a spring, and that again was divided from the 
house by a tall hedge, a row of short limes with black stems and 
young green leaves, and a pretty large lawn. Behind the house 
was a long garden now almost smothered in blossom, and along 
the carriage-drive stood rows of lilacs and acacias, with here and 
there an almond-tree, which bore a sprinkling of deep-pink flow- 
ers. It was an old-fashioned house of red brick, the original 
builder’s intention having clearly been to sacrifice to inside com- 
fort outside appearance. When Mr. Anerley, therefore, had one 
side of it partly rebuilt, he had no scruple in adorning the draw* 
ing-room with French windows, which opened out upon the lawn, 
while the dining-room at the other side of the building had two 
large bay-windows of the usual height from the ground. The 
house, nevertheless, was very snug and comfortable ; and if you 
looked across the common and the pond, and saw it nestled 
among the thick foliage of lime and lilac and birch, you would 
say it was a very charming little country residence. 

When Dove and her companion got down to this sheltered lit- 
tle place, they found it, as usual, alive with children. The gath- 
ering together from all his friends and relations of whatever small 
boys and girls they could spare was a hobby of Mr. Anerley’s. 
He liked to keep a perpetual children’s party going at Chestnut 
Bank ; and there was not a governess in one of his friends’ houses 
who did not owe to him many a grateful holiday. Then this 
monstrous ogre of a materialist, who already smelled of brim- 


44 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


stone in the nostrils of the people around, was as careful about 
the proprieties and go -to -bed prayers of the little ones as he 
was convinced that amusement ought to be their chief education. 
Indeed, he once caught the Buttons of the small establishment 
amusing himself and a companion by teaching a little boy to re- 
peat some highly improper phrases, and before the youthful joker 
knew where he was he felt the lithe curl of a horsewhip round 
his legs — a sensation he remembered for many a day after while 
gayly polishing his spoons and washing out his decanters. 

At this moment a little girl was seated at the piano laboriously 
playing a hymn-tune possessed of no very recondite chords ; while 
on the lawn in front Mr. Anerley lay at full length, a book be- 
tween his face and the sunshine. Mrs. Anerley sat on a low chair 
beside him, also reading, a large deer-hound at her feet ; while two 
or three more children were scampering over the lawn, occasion- 
ally “ coming a cropper ” over a croquet-hoop. She was a pretty 
little woman, with dark-brown hair and eyes — nervous, sensitive, 
and full of the tenderest idealisms — altogether a noble, affection- 
ate, and lovable little woman. Her husband was a rather tall and 
spare man, with short, rough gray hair and whiskers, an aquiline 
nose, and gentle gray eyes. He was a keen sportsman and a lan- 
guid student — a man who liked to cover his weaknesses of senti- 
ment with a veil of kindly humor, and seemed to live very easily 
and comfortably, considering that he was accused of harboring 
materialism — that terrible quicklime, which, according to some 
profound calculators, is about to shrivel up the heavens and the 
earth, and all the gentle humanities which have been growing up 
through so many thousand years. 

“ Halloo, Will !” said Mr. Anerley, as the young man approach- 
ed and kissed his mother, “ why didn’t you come down last 
night ?” 

“Old Hubbard got me to stay in town with him, that we 
might go to a supper.” 

“ He told me he would likely see you, and asked us all to walk 
over to the Place in the evening. Poor man, he has never been 
himself since the lord chamberlain refused to let him attend a 
levee as the Count Von Schonstein. Will, when anybody offers 
you thirty thousand pounds a year, don’t take it.” 

“ I won’t, father.” 

“ Hubbard used to be as jolly, happy, and stupid a man as you 


CHESTNUT BANK. 


45 


could wish to meet ; and since he got that money left him, he 
has been the most miserable of mortals. I asked him yesterday 
why he did not go among the City people, become a councillor, 
or alderman, or mayor, or get a baronetcy by buying a railway, 
or do something of the kind ; and he crushed me with his con- 
temptuous silence. He must have spent a lot of money in buy- 
ing his countship, and yet he can’t get one of the old families to 
look at him. If some indigent lady does not marry him, or if 
the Prince of Wales does not pick him up as a butt, he will die 
of spleen.” 

“ And he is a good sort of fellow, too,” said Will. “ It is a 
shame to invent stories about his frantic efforts to get among 
the aristocracy, as they’re doing in town just now. I think it’s 
one’s duty to cheer him up a bit. Fancy him living all by him- 
self in that great house — a man who can no more read than he 
can shoot, or fish, or ride. Bv-the-way, he tumbled off his horse 
in the Park on Friday morning, and nearly knocked over a little 
girl of Lady Charlton’s, who was out for the first time ; and I had 
half promised to introduce him to Lady Charlton. I suppose 
he’ll decline now, after making an exhibition of himself.” 

“He won’t, you’ll see. My poor Hubbard would kiss the 
ground on which Lady Charlton treads, although I suppose he 
hasn’t seen her yet.” 

“ I think you are two spiteful wretches,” said Dove, “ lying 
there, on such a beautiful day, and laughing at one of your own 
friends. I think the count a very nice gentleman, and — ” 

“ And he brought you down a coronet of blue pearls the other 
day,” said Mrs. Anerley, with a smile. 

“Why, I’ve never seen that wonderful head -gear you were 
talking about, Dove,” said Will. “ Do go and put it on now.” 

Dove was nowise loath ; she knew as well as anybody how 
pretty she looked in her new article of attire. In a few minutes 
she returned, and stood at the open glass door, the creepers on 
the front of the house framing her in as if she were a picture. 
This head-dress — which I cannot describe scientifically — the 
count had purchased abroad ; and, had he gone over Europe, he 
could not have found anything to suit Dove’s face and hair so 
well. There was first a simple tiara of blue pearls fixed on a 
gleaming blue band ; then there were one or two loose strings of 
the pearls taken back to bind down a soft, thick swathe of white 


46 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


muslin which came down under the chin and encompassed the 
pretty head. The blue strings among the light-brown hair, the 
thick, soft, snowy circle round the slightly flushed face, the 
pleased, self-conscious eyes, and the half -smiling mouth — alto- 
gether they formed such a bright, soft, charming little picture 
that Mr. Anerley cried out, 

“ Come here at once, Dove, and kiss me, or I shall believe 
you’re a fairy !” 

And when he had his arm round her neck, he said, 

“ I expected every moment to see you fly right away up into 
the air, and then we should have seen no more of you than if you 
were a little white pigeon quite lost up in the blue.” 

“ But I should come down again, papa, when I wanted some- 
thing to eat.” 

“ Or your glass of port-wine after dinner, eh ?” 

They had dinner early at Chestnut Bank on Sundays, to let the 
servants get to afternoon church. And on Sundays, also, all the 
children dined down-stairs ; so that they had quite a fine party 
to-day when they assembled round the table. Dove had seen 
that all the little boys’ and girls’ costume was correct, had got 
fresh flowers for the table, and wore herself a pretty white dress 
with blue ribbons — adding considerably to the brightness and 
liveliness of the family gathering. 

“ Had you a good sermon to-day, Dove ?” asked Mr. Anerley. 

“ Yes, papa ; but I don’t like Mr. Oldham.” 

She had never forgiven the good man for his too great anxiety 
about the Athanasian Creed. 

“ By-the-way, mamma,” continued Mr. Anerley, “ don’t let me 
forget to tell you what I was reading in the papers this morning 
— although it will shock you, I know. They are going to secu- 
larize the Church.” 

Mrs. Anerley looked up — vaguely conscious that something 
dreadful was going to happen. 

“The Ecclesiastical Commissioners are to be abolished; the 
churches are to be turned into school-rooms ; and the clergymen 
may, if they like, remain and be school-masters. If they don’t, 
they must walk out.” 

“Quite true, mother,” continued Will, taking up the won- 
drous tale; “and the Government means to cut up the entire 
ecclesiastical property, the glebe-lands, and what not, into small 


CHESTNUT BANK. 


47 


farms for the use of the poor people all over the three king- 
doms.” 

“ The prime minister himself says it is useless trying to save 
the soul of a man until you give him a soul ; and says that no 
man has a soul who is not properly fed and educated.” 

“ He says no man can have a soul,” repeated Will, “ who has 
less than twenty shillings a week ; and until that minimum is 
reached, the clergymen must turn farm-bailiffs or teachers. Af- 
ter then, the people may think about getting up churches once 
more. All the bishops are to be provided with a home in the 
Dramatic College at Maybury ; the archbishops, in consideration 
of their inexperience of the world — ” 

“They’re only laughing at you, mamma,” said Dove. 

“ And a pretty example to set the children,” said Mrs. Anerley. 
“ Whoever laughs at mamma is sent up-stairs to bed at once.” 

“ Dove,” said Will, suddenly, “ do you know where you are go- 
ing to-morrow ?” 

“No.” 

“ Up to town. We’re all going, except those young people 
who must remain in expectation of what we shall bring them 
when we return. You shall see, Dove — what shall you not see? 
I have always promised to give you a good dose of town, and 
now you shall have it. You shall sit up in a wire cage in the 
House of Commons, and look over the heads of the reporters on 
the drowsy gentlemen beneath. You shall see Mr. Gladstone, 
lying back, with his head in the air ; you shall see Mr. Disraeli, 
apparently going to cry ; and Lord Stanley, with his hat on the 
back of his head, and his hands in his pockets, looking as if he 
had just lost a bet.” 

“ I shouldn’t care a bit about one of them,” said Dove. 

“ Then you shall go to another wire cage at Evans’s ; and you 
shall see a row of pale little boys in black, with their hands be- 
hind them, singing to rows of decorous gentlemen ; or you may 
light upon the audience in its idiotic stage, and find them ap- 
plauding Philistinic politics over their raw chops. Then — and 
listen, mamma ! — the programme begins with a box, to-morrow 

evening, at the theatre, where Miss Annie Brunei is playing 

her Juliet.” 

“ The new actress, Will ?” asked his father. 

“Yes.” 


48 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Ah ! now you promise us something worth seeing !” said 
Dove, with glad eyes. “And oh, mamma, Will knows Miss Bru- 
nei, and has spoken to her, and says that she is — ” 

“ Lovely,” she was about to say ; but she added “ pretty,” mod- 
erating her enthusiasm. 

“Yes, I think she is rather pghetty,” said Will; at which all 
the children laughed. “ But you’ll judge for yourself to-morrow 
night.” 

After dinner, and when the children had received a tiny sip of 
port-wine along with their fruit, Mr. Anerley proposed to Will 
that they should smoke outside; and so a small table, some de- 
canters and glasses, and a few chairs were carried out, and placed 
under a great cedar-tree, which was now beginning to get a # soft 
green velvet over its dark shelves of branches. 

“Dove,” whispered Mr. Anerley, “go and ask mamma if I 
mayn’t have my song to-day ?” 

“ But, papa, it’s Sunday.” 

“Tell mamma to take all the children into the meadow, with 
some bread for the pony. They won’t hear it, then.” 

Tbis was accordingly done ; and then Dove, opening the French 
window of the drawing-room, so that the music might pass out 
to the gentlemen underneath the cedar, sung, very prettily indeed, 
Mr. Anerley’s particular song — “Where the bee sucks.” Her 
voice was not a powerful one, but it was very tender and express 
ive ; and there was a quaint softness in that purring habit of hers 
which made her sing, “ Meghily, meghily shall I sleep now.” 

And when she went outside to Mr. Anerley, and knelt down 
beside him, to ask him if he was satisfied, he put his arm round 
her waist and said, with a smile, 

“ Meghily, meghily shall I sleep now, my darling. I should 
have been miserable all the afternoon if I had not heard my own 
song. I believe I wrote it, Dove.” 

“You mustn’t sleep now papa,” she said, blushing a little over 
her bad pronunciation, “ for you said we were going to walk over 
to the Place this afternoon.” 

“ So I did ; and we will start presently.” 


BALNACLUITII PLACE. 


49 


CHAPTER VII. 

BALNACLUITH PLACE. 

“ It often surprises me,” said Mr. Anerley, as the little party 
made its way across the common of St. Mary-Kirby in the warm 
evening glow, “ that Hubbard cares to keep up acquaintance with 
us. We always dislike people who have known us in ill-fortune, 
or penury, or great depression. I even hate the flavor of cigars 
that I have smoked when recovering from sickness ; I must have 
others when I get quite well again. Now, Hubbard, with his 
deer-park, and harriers, and thirty thousand a year, ought to be 
disgusted with people who knew him as a tea-broker.” 

“Don’t be so ill-natured about Mr. Hubbard, dear,” said his 
wife, with a smile. “ I’m sure he is a big, soft, stupid, well-mean- 
ing sort of man.” 

Mr. Anerley was not quite so certain about the softness and 
good intentions of the count ; but he charitably forbore to speak. 
Dove and Will, who had stood for a few seconds on the bridge 
to watch the two swans come sailing towards them in expectation 
of crumbs — cleaving the burnished gold of the mill-head into 
long purple lines — now came up ; and they walked away from the 
still little village, along the green lanes, until they drew near the 
Place. 

It was a great, sombre, fine old building, which had figured in 
history under another name — a large building of gloomy red 
brick, with innumerable mullioned windows, and peaks, and stone 
griffins — a building that had here and there grown gray and 
orange with the lichens and rain and wind of many years. It 
stood upon a high terrace on the side of a hill sloping down to 
the river, which ran along the valley to St. Mary-Kirby ; and at 
this point the stream — a line of flashing gold winding through 
the soft green — divided the terrace and lawn of the house from 
the great park opposite, with its magnificent elms and its small 
close-lying herd of deer. Round about the Place, too, were some 
fine trees, on a particular cluster of which a colony of rooks had 

3 


50 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


established themselves at some by-gone time. Altogether a noble 
and handsome old building was this Balnacluith Places, for which 
the Graf Yon Schonstein had — not without a purpose — expend- 
ed a large sum of money, on his accession to fortune. Alas ! the 
influence of the Place had fled the moment he bought it. The 
brilliant gentlemen and lovely ladies whom the count had pict- 
ured to himself dining in the great hall, or walking in the broad 
park, never appeared. The grand old house had lost its mesmeric 
power ; and no longer drew down from London those brilliant 
parties of wits, and beaux, and belles who once — as the count had 
informed himself — held their merry revels there. He had spark- 
ling wines at his command; lights he could have in abundance; 
when he chose, the dining-hall was brilliant with plate, and flow- 
ers, and fruit — but the ladies and gentlemen whom he had men- 
tally invited stayed away. And he was not the man to go out 
into the highways and by-ways, and gather in beggars to his feast. 
He had aimed at a particular kind of guests : they had not come; 
but there was yet hope of their coming. 

When the Anerleys drew near, they perceived the figure of a 
man walking solitarily up and down the stone terrace in front of 
the house. His only companions were the couchant lions at each 
end of the terrace, which had kept guard there, over the few steps, 
for nearly a couple of centuries. 

“ It is Hubbard himself,” said Mr. Anerley. 

“ He looks like the ghost of some dead owner of the house, 
come back to take his accustomed stroll,” said Will. 

“At all events, he is smoking,” said Dove. 

When the count perceived his visitors, he threw away his cigar, 
and came down to meet them, saluting them with florid and 
formal courtesy. 

“No need to ask how you are, Miss Anerley — charming as 
ever. Persuaded our friend Will to give up his wandering life, 
eh?” 

This was the count’s great joke: it had never been known to 
fail — at least in rendering Dove very uncomfortable. 

“ What a fine evening ! Look how beautiful the trees are down 
there !” he continued, allowing his eye to roam over the prospect 
before him in innocent pride — looking, indeed, as if he thought 
that God had prepared the sunset simply to light up Count Schon- 
stein’s park. 


BALNACLUITH PLACE. 


51 


“ It is a fine park ; and a beautiful evening, too,” said Mr. An- 
erley. “ It is a pity that most beautiful things make one sad.” 

“ That is because we don’t possess them,” said the count, laugh- 
ing : he was of a practical turn of mind. 

The count turned to the ladies, and — as was his universal cus- 
tom when he wished to be polite — he insisted on their going in- 
side and having a glass of wine. 

“ Look here, Anerley,” he said, when both of them declined, 
“ you must come and try some port I got down last night — 
bought it at the sale of Major Benson’s cellar on Thursday — ten 
pounds a dozen, and cheap at the money.” 

“ If it was sent home last night, I’d rather not,” said Mr. Aner- 
ley, with a smile. 

“ I didn’t mean that particular wine,” replied the count, un- 
blushingly. “ Or will you all stay and dine with me ? Do ; I 
dine at eight.” 

This was what is bluntly called a lie ; the count — except when 
circumstances compelled him — never forsook his old dinner-hour 
of five. He had, in fact, only begun his second cigar after din- 
ner when the Anerleys arrived. But the count probably fancied 
that a mere courtesy-lie wasn’t much, and trusted to his visitors* 
declining the invitation, which they did. 

“I would rather go down and see the deer,” said Dove. 
“ Didn’t you say you had some roe-deer among them ?” 

“ Those I had brought from Schonstein ?” said the count, rather 
pompously. “ They all died, as Hermann said they would. But 
it was an experiment, you know. I must get Hermann, if we’re 
going into the park ; the deer won’t come to me.” 

He went into the house for a few moments, and reappeared, 
followed by the keeper, a splendid-looking fellow, with a brown, 
handsome face, great shoulders, and long legs encased in rough 
top-boots. This Hermann had been the head -keeper, chief for- 
ester, and what not, of Schonstein, when Mr. Hubbard bought the 
place; and on the principle of the Portuguese navigators, who 
brought home men and women from the Guinea coast to prove 
that they had been there, the count carried the big Schwarzwalder 
over to England with him, as a specimen of what he had pur- 
chased abroad. Unlike most of his Schwarzwald brethren, Her- 
mann knew not a word of English ; Hubbard knew not a word 
of German ; and for many a month after his expatriation the ef- 


52 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


forts of master and man to understand each other formed a con- 
stant comedy at the Place. In one or two cases Mr. Anerley was 
besought to act as interpreter ; and even now nothing delighted 
the stalwart, good-natured Black-Forester so much as a long talk 
in his native language with any of his master’s guests who were 
complaisant enough to humor him. 

“ Hermann,” said the count, loudly, to let his visitors know 
that now he could support his rank by talking in the language of 
the country which gave it him, “ das Fraulein wunscht die — die 
Rehe zu sehen — ” 

“The Rehe are all died, Herr Graf,” said the sturdy keeper, 
who would not have his native tongue burlesqued. 

“ Ich meine die — die — the deer that are there !” said the count, 
sharply and hotly, “und sie miissen, wissen Sie, etwas — etwas 
— eh — ah — etwas Speise — ” 

“ Futter, nicht wahr ?” suggested Will, looking gravely at Dove. 

“ Yes, yes, of course ; the fellow knows well enough. I mean 
to get the deer to come up to him.” 

“They will come without nothing, Herr Graf,” said the tall 
forester. 

They crossed the small iron bridge leading from the lawn over 
the river into the park. The deer were for the most part lying 
down, underneath the shadow of three large oaks, one or two only 
still standing and nibbling the grass. When our party drew near, 
however, the whole herd rose and retreated a little, while one of 
the bucks came proudly to the front and stood, with his small 
head and tall horns erect, watching the approach of the strangers. 

“Will you come with me, Fraulein?” said Hermann; and 
Dove went forward with him, leaving the others behind. 

No sooner had the keeper thus made himself distinctly visible, 
than two or three of the does came timidly forward, alternating 
a little quiet canter with a distrustful pause, and at last one of 
them came quite up to the keeper, and looked rather wistfully at 
his hand with her large, soft brown eyes. 

“This is her I call Lammchen ,” said Hermann, stroking the 
small neck of the hind, “ she is so tame. And there is Leopard 
over there, with the spots on him. I speak to them in German ; 
they know it all the same.” 

One of the bucks now seemed also desirous to approach ; look- 
ing about him in a sheepish way, however, as if it were beneath 


BALNACLUITH PLACE. 


53 


his dignity for him to follow the example of the women of his 
tribe. 

“ Komm her, du furchtsamer Kerl !” said Hermann, going for- 
ward, and taking hold of him by one of his broad, palmated 
horns ; “ he is a fine deer, is he not ? Look at his horns and his 
bright colors. He is better than for to be in a park, like the 
cows. He should be in the woods.” 

He took a piece of brown bread from his pocket and gave it to 
Dove, who held it to the small mouth of the buck, where it was 
speedily nibbled up. Then she stroked his neck, and looked at 
his big, apprehensive eyes ; and then they went back to the group 
whom they had left. 

“Miss Anerley,” said the count, “won’t you persuade those 
people to go inside and have some tea? I ought to be able to 
give you good tea, you know.” 

It was when the count wished to be very modest and complai- 
sant indeed that he joked about his old calling. 

They went inside, and sat in a large, sombre, oaken - panelled 
room, with the fast fading light coldly falling through the dia- 
mond panes of the tall and narrow windows. Then lamps were 
brought in, and tea ; and they sat talking and chatting for nearly 
an hour. 

When they went out upon the terrace again to go home, there 
was a pale moonlight lying over the lawn, hitting sharply here 
and there on the stone mullions of the windows, and touching 
grayly and softly a thin mist which had settled down upon the 
park. It was a beautiful, still night ; and as Dove and Will went 
home, they allowed Mr. and Mrs. Anerley to get on so far in front 
of them, that at last they were only visible as dark specks on the 
white road. 

For some time they walked on in silence ; and then Will said, 
carelessly, 

“ Will you go up to town with me to-morrow morning, Dove, 
and I’ll devote the whole day to you ? Or will you come up with 
my father in the afternoon ?” 

She did not answer him ; and then, in a second or two, when 
he looked down, he was surprised to find her eyes full of tears. 

“ What ever is the matter, Dove ?” 

“ Oh, Will,” she said, turning the beautiful, wet eyes up to his 
face — and they were very beautiful in the soft moonlight — “I 


54 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


have been wanting to speak to you all day, and I have been so 
afraid. I wanted to ask you not to — not to go to Honduras : 
won’t you give it up, if I ask you, Will ?” 

“ Why should that trouble you, Dove? If I do go, it will only 
be a short trip ; and then it will be of great advantage to me in 
this way, that if — ” 

“ But, Will dear, listen to me for a moment,” she said, with a 
piteous entreaty in her voice. “ I know why you have always to 
go away from England, although you have been too kind-hearted 
to speak of it — I know it quite well ; it’s because I’m to have the 
money that belongs to you, and you have to fight your way all 
by yourself, and leave your family year after year, and all because 
of me ; and I won’t have the money, Will — I hate it — and it’s 
making me more miserable every day.” 

“ Darling, don’t distress yourself like that,” he said, soothingly, 
for she was now crying very bitterly. “ I assure you, you mis- 
take the whole affair. I won’t go to Honduras, if you like — I’ll 
do anything you ask me. But really, Dove, I go abroad merely 
because, as I believe, one of my ancestors must have married a 
gypsy. I like to wander about, and see people, and live differ- 
ently, and get generally woke up to what’s going on in the world. 
Bless you, my darling, if it were money I wanted, I ought to have 
remained at home from the beginning. My father has only done 
what any well-thinking man would have done in his place ; and 
you mustn’t fret yourself about such a trifle — ” 

“I knew you would never acknowledge I was robbing you, 
Will ; but I am. And all the time you were in Russia, and in 
Canada, whenever there was a heavy storm blowing, I used to lie 
awake at night and cry ; because I knew it was I who had sent you 
away out there, and I thought you might be in a ship and in dan- 
ger — all through me. And this morning, when you — when you 
said you were going to Honduras, I made up my mind then to go to 
papa to-morrow morning, and I’ll tell him I won’t have the money. 
I’ll go away from you altogether rather, and be a governess — ” 

“ Now, now, Dove, don’t vex me and yourself about nothing,” 
he said to her, kindly. “ I won’t go to Honduras.” 

“You won’t?” 

“ I won’t.” 

She raised her head a little bit — in an entreating way — and the 
compact was sealed. 


JULIET. 


55 


“ I’ll tell you what I shall do,” he said, taking the hand that 
lay on his arm into his own. “ I will stay at home, get myself 
into some regular work, take a small house somewhere near here, 
and then you’ll come and be my wife, won’t you, Dove ?” 

There was a slight pressure on his hand : that was her only an- 
swer. They walked on for some little time in silence ; and then, 
catching a glimpse of her face, he stopped to dry the tears from 
her cheeks. While engaged in that interesting occupation, she 
said to him, with a little smile, 

“ It looks as if I had asked you , Will — doesn’t it ?” 

“ I don’t think so,” he said. 

“ It wouldn’t matter if I did, would it ?” she asked, simply. 
“ For you know how fond I am of you, Will.” 

They talked of that and a good many other relevant matters 
until they had reached St. Mary-Kirby. They paused for a mo- 
ment on the bridge — to look at the dark shadows about the mill 
and the white sheen of the moonlight on the water ; and then she 
whispered, timidly, 

“ When shall we be married, Will ?” 

“We shall be maghied whenever you like, Dove,” he said, light- 
ly and cheerfully. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

JULIET. 

By the time the “ playing-in ” farce was over, the house was 
quite full. That morning’s papers had written in such a fashion 
about the new triumph of Miss Brunei on Saturday night, that 
long before the box-office was closed there was not a registered 
place in the building which had not been seized upon. Will 
foresaw what was likely to happen, and had asked Mr. Melton to 
secure him a box. 

When the little party drove from the Langham — Will’s rooms 
in town scarcely offering them the accommodation they required 
— Dove was in high spirits. It was the first time she had gone 
anywhere with the young gentleman opposite her since their 
“ engagement,” and she already felt that comfortable sense of ex- 
tended possession which married people enjoy. She took her 


56 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


seat in the brougham, which Count Schonstein had kindly placed 
at their disposal, with a new and fluttering pleasure ; she already 
imagined herself to have the importance and the claims to atten- 
tion of a wife; and she accepted Will’s little courtesies in this 
light, and made herself very happy over the altered aspect of their 
relations. 

When her opera-cloak had been hung up, and her tiny bouquet, 
opera-glass, and bill placed daintily before her, the graceful little 
woman ensconced herself in the corner and timidly peeped round 
the curtain. She was dressed in a very faint-blue silk, with sharp, 
broad lines of white about it ; and over and through her rippling 
brown hair ran the strings of blue pearls which Count Schonstein 
had given her. Not even Mrs. Anerlev, who saw her often enough, 
could forbear to look with a tender pride upon the girl ; and as 
for Mr. Anerley, whose tall, upright figure was hidden in the shad- 
ow of the box, he would fain have sat down beside his adopted 
daughter, with his arm round her waist, and forgotten all about 
what they had come to see. 

The orchestra finished its overture, chiefly composed of the deli- 
cate “ Sonnambula ” music, and the curtain rose. Dove was dis- 
appointed at not seeing Miss Brunei, and paid but little attention 
to the preliminary scenes. 

Suddenly there was an extraordinary commotion throughout 
the house, and a burst of that fine, strong, thunderous music 
which artists love to hear — and then Dove saw advance a girlish- 
looking creature with a calm, somewhat pale, and interesting face, 
and beautiful black hair. She was only girlish in the slightness 
of her figure : there was an artistic completeness in her motions 
and a self-possession in her bearing which gave her something of 
a queenly look. She wore a magnificent white-satin dress, the 
train of which lay in splendid masses behind her ; and down over 
this white and gold fell a black-lace veil, partly hiding the rich 
hair, and enclosing the clear, beautiful dark face. Dove was 
spell-bound by that face. It somehow suggested Italy to her, and 
blue skies, and music, and the passionate artistic warmth of the 
South ; nor was the illusion destroyed by the low chest-voice with 
which the girl replied to the questions of Lady Capulet. And 
from that moment Dove thought no more of Miss Brunei and 
Will’s friend. She was only Juliet, and Dove followed her sad 
story with an aching heart and a trembling lip. 


JULIET. 


57 


During the matchless balcony scene, Will saw this intense sym- 
pathetic emotion growing upon the girl. I believe it is consid- 
ered to be the proper thing for young ladies to be able to turn 
round and smile compassionately to each other, when the tragic 
sadness on the stage is making the women in the pit sob bitterly, 
and raising great lumps in the throats of the men. It is a pretty 
accomplishment, in its way ; and may be indicative of other qual- 
ities which these young persons are accused of possessing. Dove’s 
emotional tendencies had never been educated, however ; and in 
this balcony-scene, as I say, she watched the lovers with a pain- 
ful interest, which wrote its varying story every moment on her 
face. The theatre was still as death. The scarcely uttered ten- 
dernesses of Juliet were heard as distinctly as if they had been 
breathed into one’s ear; and the eyes of the audience drank in 
the trembling lights and shadows of her girlish passion with an 
unconscious delight and admiration. The abandonment of her 
affection, the reluctant declarations, the coy shrinkings, and pite- 
ous, playful, tender apologies were so blended as to make the 
scene an artistic marvel ; and Dove sat “ laughin’ maist like to 
greet,” as the old Scotch song says. Indeed, she scarcely knew 
whether to laugh or cry with the delight — the absolute delight — 
which this piece of true art gave her ; and when at last J uliet had 
forced herself to the parting — 

“’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone: 

And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird ; 

Who lets it hop a little from her hand, 

Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, 

And with a silk thread plucks it back again, 

So loving-jealous of his liberty ” — 

when, lingeringly and sadly, she had withdrawn from the balcony, 
Dove rose suddenly, and with a half-choked sob in her voice, 
said, 

“ Oh, Will, I should like so much to see her — and — and — ” 

“Kiss her,” she had nearly said; but thinking it might be 
ridiculous, she stopped. 

“ It’s against the rules, Dove,” said Will, with a smile. “ Be- 
sides, that isn’t Miss Brunei you’ve been looking at; that is 
Juliet. Both are very nice ladies ; but they are quite unlike each 
other.” 

Dove was terribly disappointed. She would like to have de- 

3 * 


58 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


dared her conviction that Miss Brunei was Juliet — that she had 
every bit the same tenderness, and sweetness, and loveliness ; but 
she was afraid her enthusiasm might make Mrs. Anerley laugh at 
her, and so she bore the rebuff patiently. 

Presently, however, some one tapped at the box-door ; and the 
next moment Will was introducing the manager, Mr. Melton, to 
his companions. 

“My young friend here,” said Will to Melton, while Dove’s 
pretty face assumed an extra tinge of color, “ has been so much 
struck by Miss Brunei, that she would like to go and thank her 
personally.” 

Now Mr. Melton was in a very good humor. The house was 
crammed; there was almost no “paper” in it; and the prospect 
of a good run through the popularity of his new acquisition 
had warmed up his impassive nature into quite a pronounced 
geniality. 

“ Then you ought to introduce the young lady to Miss Brunei,” 
said Mr. Melton, blithely. “ If you like, I’ll take you round at 
the end of the act, when Miss Brunei will have a little ‘ wait.’ ” 

“ Will you go, Dove?” asked Will. 

“ Yes,” she said, timidly. 

Just as the curtain fell upon the scene in Friar Laurence’s cell, 
at the end of the second act, Mr. Melton conducted Dove and 
Will down a tortuous little stone stair into a narrow passage, 
from which they entered into the wings. A noisy and prolonged 
recall was thundering throughout the house, and Miss Brunei was 
being led on to the stage by Romeo to receive renewed plaudits. 
When she returned and passed under the glare of the jets in one 
of the entrances, Will went forward to shake hands with her. 

“ I have to congratulate you again,” he said. 

“ Thank you,” she said, simply. 

There had been a pleased smile of welcome in her eyes when 
they met ; and yet it seemed to him that there was a strange, in- 
tense expression in her look which was not natural to it. Once 
or twice before he had seen her in the same circumstances ; and 
invariably this unconscious, mesmeric intensity was present in her 
eyes. He explained it to himself by supposing that the emo- 
tional idealism of her assumed character had not quite died out 
of her yet. 

Then she turned and saw Dove standing with Mr. Melton. 


JULIET. 


59 


Will begged to introduce bis “ sister and tbe brief ceremony 
was sufficiently singular. For a moment the dark, lambent eyes 
of Miss Brunei were fixed upon the fair young girl with a sort of 
hesitating look — an inquiring, apprehensive look, which Will nev- 
er forgot ; then all at once she frankly extended her hand. Dove, 
a little frightened, approached and shook hands with her. 

“ Mr. Anerley has spoken to me about you,” said Annie Brunei ; 
and Dove was conscious that the dark-haired girl before her knew 
her secret. 

How singular it was to hear herself addressed in those low, 
rich tones which a few minutes ago were addressing Romeo in 
the moonlight! Dove almost felt herself enchanted; and could 
have believed at that moment that she herself belonged to the 
old, sad, sweet play, which seems to contain everything that was 
ever uttered about man’s love and woman’s devotion. 

“ I must go down to my dressing-room now,” said Miss Brunei 
to Dove. “ Will you come with me, if yfiu are curious to see 
the place ? I will send some one round with you to your box 
afterward.” 

Will saw that Dove would like to go, so he settled the proposal 
by telling her not to be in Miss Brunei’s way ; and then he and 
Melton returned to the front of the house. 

Dove was now conducted by her companion down into the 
theatrical Hades which lies beneath the stage. She saw the 
figures of the carpenters gliding, like the spirits of the damned, 
through the dusky twilight; she saw the cumbrous wood-work, 
the machinery of the traps, and what not, rendered faintly visible 
by the glimmering jets; and then she was led into the bright 
little room which was appropriated to Miss Brunei’s use. 

“You may go home if you like, now, Sarah,” said the latter to 
her dresser. “ Mrs. Christmas is in the theatre, and will be here 
presently.” 

“ Thank you, miss,” said the tidy little woman, who immediate- 
ly hurried away home to get supper ready for her husband, a gas- 
man in the theatre. 

It was the best single dressing-room in the place ; but it was 
not a very grand apartment. There was, however, a full-length 
mirror at one end, which had been privately presented (with a 
hint as to its destination) by Count Schon stein to Mr. Melton ; 
and the manager had thought that the least he could do was to 


60 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


newly paper the little chamber. At present it was in a state of 
confusion which largely excited Dove’s curiosity. The imple- 
ments of stage effect were displayed before her, on the floor, on 
the table, and on the marble slab underneath the smaller looking- 
glass ; and all around lay or hung divers articles of costume and 
ornament, the peculiarly bright materials and prominent decora- 
tions of which were very new to her. But it needed only a 
glance at Juliet’s clear, beautiful face to see that she required very 
little “making-up,” nor was Dove less surprised to find that the 
lace and similar little delicacies of the young actress’s costume 
were real and valuable. 

“ My mother taught me to make all these things myself,” she 
explained to Dove. “ She was very particular about them ; and 
used to say that when one meant to spend one’s life in a profes- 
sion, one ought to have as much pride in wearing real lace on the 
stage as out-of-doors.” 

“ And do you mean to spend all your life in your profession ?” 
asked Dove, timidly. 

“Yes; why not?” said the girl, with a smile. 

“ I — I don’t know,” stammered Dove, blushing dreadfully. 

“Come, be frank with me,” said Annie Brunei, taking the 
girl’s hand in hers. “Don’t you think it very wicked to be an 
actress ?” 

Dove was now forced to explain herself. 

“ I don’t, indeed,” she said. “ But I couldn’t help thinking 
that you are too young and — and too pretty — to waste all your 
life in a theatre.” 

“ Oh, nonsense !” said Miss Brunei, laughing in a motherly sort 
of way. “I live only in the theatre. I find my life wasted 
whenever I go out of it, and spend my time in amusing myself 
like a child. I have nothing to interest me but the theatre, noth- 
ing to live for out of it ; and it is only when I get into the spirit 
of my part that I feel myself all throbbing over with a delicious 
life. You cannot understand that? Why, my very fingers tingle 
with enjoyment ; I get quite a new warmth within me ; and many 
a time I can’t help laughing or crying quite naturally when the 
scene suggests it. I’m sure no one in front has half the delight 
in a play that I have. I scarcely see the wings, and the prompter, 
and the scene-shifters ; I forget the abominable smell of gas ; and 
I should like to keep on the character forever — if it is one that 


JULIET. 


61 


pleases me. When I get a new and unpleasant part, I hate 
acting. I feel as if I were doing exactly what Mrs. Christmas 
taught me ; and that the people must be laughing at me ; and 
I become afraid of the critics, and hope that I sha’n’t forget 
the cues.’ , 

Here the call-boy came running to the door; Juliet was wanted 
for the second scene. She hastily departed ; and Dove was left 
alone. 

“ How very friendly she must be with Will, to receive me so 
kindly, and talk to me so frankly !” thought Dove, when it was 
her own pretty face that had won upon the young actress’s heart. 

The scene in Capulet’s house is a short one, and Annie Brunei 
was speedily back in her room. She brought with her Mrs. 
Christmas ; and the bright, white-haired little woman made a pert 
courtesy when she was introduced, and said how sorry she was to 
hear that the young lady had been sitting alone. The next mo- 
ment she was running into a series of ludicrous stories about the 
mistakes inexperienced people had made in trying to find their 
way about the theatre by themselves ; and it must be confessed 
that her anecdotes were sometimes so very humorous that it was 
as well that only ladies heard them. 

“And something of the same kind,” she continued, with her 

merry little eyes sparkling, “ happened to Mr. , the celebrated 

author, you know, with Nelly Featherstone, who is in this theatre 
at the present moment — or ought to be. You know it was a ben- 
efit night, Miss — Anerley ? — yes, Miss Anerley ; and there was a 
general hurry-scurry, and he had been left in the wings. He 
asked a super how he should get to Mr. Crimp (and it was his 
benefit, my dear, and he had several friends with him, all drinking 
in his room), and the man told him to go to the first dressing- 
room on the right when he went down-stairs. But his right was 
our left, as you know, my dear ; and there were in the first dress- 
ing-room on the left Nelly Featherstone and her sister, and an- 
other girl, all dressing as hard as ever they could for the bur- 
lesque. Nelly was Perseus, and before she had got on her 
tights, she was in — in a transition state, shall we say, my dear ?” 
Here the merry little woman laughed until the tears ran down 

her withered gray cheeks. “ And up to the door goes Mr. , 

and opens it without thinking. Oh, Lor ! what a fright he must 
have got ! Nelly screamed at the pitch of her voice, and fell into 


62 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


a chair, and screamed again ; and her sister Jeanie (she had some 
clothes on) ran at the poor man, and said something very offen- 
sive, and slammed the door in his face. Poor fellow ! he nearly 
died of shame; and Nelly’s scream told everybody of his blun- 
der, and Crimp and all his friends shrieked over it — but not be- 
fore him, my dear, for he was much too celebrated a man to be 
laughed at. Only he sent her next day an explanation and an 
apology through the manager, and as beautiful a bouquet as ever 
you saw ; and he got a friend of his to write a lovely notice of 
her in the Diurnal itself, when old Yellowjaw’s piece was — 
Mercy, gracious me! There’s the call-boy again! Run, Miss 
Annie !” 

“ Good-bye,” said Miss Brunei, hurriedly, shaking hands with 
Dove. “ I should like you to come often and see me.” 

She bent over her for a moment, kissed her lightly, and left. 

“You know what that means?” said Mrs. Christmas to Dove. 
“ That means that she will speak to no one this night again un- 
til her part is finished. All the theatre knows her way, and hu- 
mors her. It’s when the genius is working on her — that’s what 
I say ; and I know it, for I’ve seen it in her mother. There was 
the sweetest woman you ever heard of : not very friendly, miss, 
you know, in the way of talking of her own affairs — and it’s 
nothing I could ever make out about her life before I knew her 
— but the sweetest creature ! the tenderest creature ! And she 
was such a rare good actress, too — but nothing like her daughter. 
She knew that, and used to sit and talk for hours — it was the only 
thing she would talk about — over what she expected Miss Annie 
to be. And once she said to me, with tears running down her 
face, ‘ I pray every night that my little girl may be kept always 
an actress, and that she may never look for happiness outside her 
own profession.’ But it’s a shame to keep you here, miss, if 
you’ve never seen Miss Annie’s Juliet. She said I was to take 
you back to your box when you wished to go.” 

So once more Dove passed through the gloomy region, and 
worked her way upward to the light of the theatre. Her friends 
were astonished at her long absence, but they were too much en- 
thralled by what was going on upon the stage to speak to her. 
And again Dove looked down upon that queenly little person 
with whom she had been talking, and could not explain to her- 
self the strange sensation she then experienced. It seemed as if 


JULIET. 


63 


her visit to the dressing-room had been a trance, and that she had 
really been speaking with Juliet. In the dressing-room she had 
seen before her only a fine-looking, intellectual, and very courte- 
ous lady ; but now, upon the stage, she could not see this lady 
at all. She even lost the power of remembering her. Those 
jet-black tresses, those fine eyes, and that pale, beautiful fore- 
head — above all, that rich, majestic voice — all these belonged to 
Juliet, were Juliet, and she knew that it was a Juliet in nature, 
if not in name, who had spoken to her, and taken her hand, and 
kissed her. 

This is perhaps the severest test to which an artist can be put. 
When you know the writer of a book, you cannot help under- 
estimating the book. You are familiar with the author’s person- 
ality, his habit of thought, perhaps with the material on which he 
works ; you think of him more than of his book ; and nothing 
but the soundest and most concentrated effort will overcome the 
influence of this unwittingly unjust scrutiny. When you know 
an actor or an actress, you involuntarily search for himself or her- 
self in the assumed character; you look at the character from 
within, not from without; you destroy the illusion by a knowl- 
edge of its material elements. Nothing but the power of genius 
will force upon you, under these circumstances, the idealism which 
the artist is laboring to complete. 

But Dove was an easy subject for the spiritual magnetism of 
art. Her keenly sympathetic nature vibrated to the least motion 
of the magician’s hand ; and when the passionate climax of Ju- 
liet’s misery was reached, Dove had entirely lost self-control. For 
a little time she tried to retain her composure, although Mrs. An- 
erley saw her lips, suddenly tremble when Juliet begged the friar 
to show her some means of remaining faithful to her husband — 

' “ And I will do it without fear or doubt, 

To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.” 

But in the final scene she quite broke down. She rose and went 
to the back of the box, and stood in a corner, sobbing bitterly. 
Mr. Anerley drew her towards him, and tried to soothe her, in his 
quiet, kindly way. 

“ My darling, why should you vex yourself ? You will see Ju- 
liet alive in a few minutes.” 

“ I know it well enough,” she said, trying to assume her ordi- 


64 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


nary manner, “ but it’s very wrong for any one to write things 
like that, to make people cry.” 

“ The naughty Shakspeare sha’n’t do it again, that he sha’n’t,” 
said Will, compassionately. “And as for Miss Brunei, who is 
most in fault — but here she comes !” 

Will picked out of the corner the large bouquet which lay 
there, and returned in time to let it drop — nearly the first of a 
fine collection^? similar tributes which welcomed the triumph 
of the young actress — almost at her feet. Romeo picked it up, 
along with two others : she took this particular one, and sent a 
single bright look so clearly up to the box, that a good many 
heads were turned thither. When Romeo had picked up the re- 
maining bouquets, and when she had again and again bowed her 
acknowledgments of the cordial applause of the theatre, the girl 
with the pale face and the black hair retired, and the people 
calmed down. 

“ Now, Dove,” said Will, “ if you wish to be cheered up a bit 
before going, there is as absurd a farce as ever was written to fol- 
low. Shall we stay ?” 

“Just as you please, Will,” said Dove, looking down. 

The first of her new duties, she thought, was submission and 
obedience ; and she hoped neither Mr. nor Mrs. Anerley noticed 
her little conjugal effort. 

It was agreed, however, that they should go home at once, and 
Will went off to hunt up Count Schonstein’s brougham. In a 
short space of time they were seated in the Langham Hotel, 
awaiting supper. 

“And not the least pleasant part of a play,” said Mr. Anerley, 
dogmatically, as he fingered one of his wineglasses, “is the sup- 
per after. You come out of the gas and the heat into a cool, 
fresh room ; and — and — Waiter ! bring some ice, please.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 


THE COUNT'S BROTHER. 


65 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE COUNT S BROTHER. 


8 


On that same evening Herr Graf Yon Schonstein dined with 
his brother, Mr. John Hubbard, at his residence, Rose Villa, Hav* 
erstock Hill. The count, since his grand accession to fortune, 
was not a frequent visitor at his brother’s house ; but when he 
did go there, he was treated with much deference and apparent 
kindness. 

There were at dinner only the count, his brother, his brother’s 
wife, and her sister. When the two ladies rose to go into the 
drawing-room, Mrs. Hubbard said to the count, who had sprung 
to the door, 

“ Pray don’t leave us two poor creatures all to ourselves ; you 
may smoke in the drawing-room whenever you please to come in.” 

“ Jack,” said the count, returning to the table and pulling out 
his cigar-case, “ that wife of yours is an angel !” 

And so she was an angel — that is, a being without predicates. 
She was a mild, colorless, pretty woman, never out of temper, 
never enthusiastic, absolutely ignorant of everything beyond draw- 
ing-room accomplishments, scarcely proud even of her smooth, 
light-brown hair, her blue eyes, and rounded cheeks. She knew, 
of course, that there were few women of her age looked so well 
and so young ; she did not know enough to attribute that rotun- 
dity and youthfulness of face to her easy temperament, her good 
disposition, and lack of brain. Mrs. John Hubbard was conscious 
of thinking seriously only upon one subject ; and that was, wheth- 
er the count, her brother-in-law, could be induced to marry her 
sister, or whether he would remain unmarried, and leave his large 
fortune to her eldest boy Alexander, a young gentleman of eight, 
who now, in Highland dress, was about to sit down to the piano 
and delight his mother and aunt with a staccato rendering of 
“ La ci darem la mano.” 

There were reasons why Mrs. Hubbard should be disquieted 
upon this point. 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Quite an angel,” said the count, oracularly. “ But we mustn’t 
go into the drawing-room just yet. I want tc talk to you, Jack, 
about that young lady, you know.” 

“Miss Brunei?” 

“ Yes. Will you mind my taking a glass of that pale port of 
yours with my cigar ? I know it’s a shame, but — ” 

“ Don’t mention it, Fred ; I wish you’d come often er and 
try it.” 

John Hubbard straightened himself up in the wide easy-chair, 
and prepared to receive his brother’s disclosures or questions on 
a matter which was deeply interesting to them both. John was 
very unlike his stout, pompous brother — a thin little man, with 
gray hair and gray eyes, troubled by a certain twitching of the 
eyebrows, and affected generally by a weak and extremely nerv- 
ous constitution. An avaricious man who sees his younger 
brother become possessed of thirty thousand a year, which he 
himself expected to get, generally exhibits other than fraternal 
feelings ; but whatever John Hubbard may have felt, the fact 
remains, that so soon as his brother Frederick became the un- 
doubted owner of this money, he, John, began to observe tow- 
ards him a severe deference and courtesy. When the count 
went to dine at Rose Villa, there were no tricks played upon him 
in the matter of wine. The claret-cup was not composed of 
“ sudden death,” at ten shillings a dozen, with a superabundance 
of water, and cucumber-peel instead of borage. The dry sherry 
was not removed with the fish, in the hope that the dulled after- 
dinner palate might accept some Hambro’ decoction with equa- 
nimity. One wine was pretty much the same as another wine to 
the Count Von Schonstein ; but he was pleased to know that his 
brother thought so much of him as to be regardless of expense. 

“Are you quite sure, Jack,” said the younger brother, drawing 
his chair near, “ that nobody, beyond those you mentioned to me, 
knows who Miss Brunei is ?” 

“As far as I know, Fred — as far as I know,” said the other, in 
an injured, querulous tone. “ I can’t hold myself responsible, and 
I’m not infallible.” 

“ In a matter of this kind,” said the count, smiling benignly, 
“ most people seem to think that Cayley and Hubbard are infal- 
lible. They say you are the repositories of all the scandals of 
the aristocracy ; and that you might turn England upside down 


THE COUNT’S BROTHER. 


67 


by publishing what you know. But I dare say that’s exagger- 
ated. Now, don’t you think that some one who remembers that 
story of twenty-five years ago, and happens to see Miss Brunei, 
might recognize the resemblance between her and her mother, 
and then begin to inquire into the affair ?” 

There was a strong twitching of John Hubbard’s eyebrows. 
He was far from being a good-tempered man ; and to be com- 
pelled to sit and play the hypocrite was almost too much for him. 
He saw clearly whither these questions tended. He knew his 
brother’s ruling passion ; he knew there was nothing he would 
not do to be admitted among those people who had refused to 
recognize his purchased title. Again and again he had inwardly 
cursed his folly in telling the count the story of Annie Napier 
and her daughter; that breach of professional confidence was 
likely to lose his family thirty thousand a year. Can one con- 
ceive a more tantalizing position for a narrow-minded and avari- 
cious man to assume than the involuntary prompting and guid- 
ance of a scheme which is likely, in the most gratuitous way, to 
deceive his own most dearly cherished hopes? If some one else 
had suggested to the count a marriage with Miss Brunei as a 
possible passport to society, John Hubbard would not have been 
so chagrined. He would have been able to dissuade his brother 
from the step with such reasons as he could discover. But he 
had himself told the count the real history of Annie Brunei ; he 
was compelled to furnish him with all sorts of information ; and 
saw, through his own instrumentality, that money slipping out of 
his fingers which otherwise might have been his or his son’s. 

“ I have explained it to you before, Fred,” he said, patiently. 
“ Old Mr. Cayley who went out to America to see the Marquis of 
Knottingley’s wife, lives down in Suffolk, where he is not likely 
to meet people who have much interest in Miss Brunei. Besides, 
he has a very fine sense of honor in these matters, and would not 
break a pledge he gave to Miss Brunei’s mother, not to seek in 
any way to induce her daughter to leave the stage. And you 
know the people who knew of the marriage were very few, and 
most of them are dead. Mr. Palk is in his dotage, and lives in 
Westmoreland. Then who is likely to remember Miss Napier’s 
appearance ; or to perceive a likeness between her and Miss Bru- 
nei beyond the casual likenesses which occur constantly on the 
stage ? I believe I could count on my ten fingers all the people 


68 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


who know who Miss Brunei really is. There’s my wife — one; 
old Mr. Cayley — two; Cayley, my partner — three; you your- 
self—” 

He stopped ; for his brother was evidently not listening to him. 
So preoccupied was the count, indeed, that he broke the ash off 
the end of his cigar upon the edge of his wineglass, allowing the 
ash to fall into the port. 

“ I hope I haven’t poisoned you with some of my wines,” said 
John Hubbard, with a thin laugh. 

“ I beg your pardon !” said his brother, reaching over for an- 
other glass ; “ I really didn’t know what I was about. The 
whole affair seems to me so romantic and impossible — like a 
play, you know, or something of that sort. I can scarcely be- 
lieve it; and yet you lawyer fellows must sometimes meet with 
such cases.” 

“ I have one of my people down in Southend just now, trying 
if he can trace anything about a woman and her child, who, we 
believe, lived there eighteen years ago. If we find her, a curious 
story will come out. But I never in the whole course of my life 
heard of any woman, except Miss Napier, who refused a title and 
a fortune which were by right her own. I suppose the common- 
sense of actresses gets poisoned by the romantic sentiment in 
which they live and breathe.” 

“ If you mean as regards money,” said the count, with a patron- 
izing smile, “ I can assure you that most actresses have an uncom- 
monly small proportion of sentiment and a very tolerable share 
of sense. Miss Brunei’s mother must have been an extraordinary 
woman in many respects — what you and I would consider a fool, 
though many people would give her folly a fine name. Now, 
about revealing this secret to Miss Brunei, don’t you think some 
of the marquis’s relatives might do that ?” 

“ They would cut their fingers off first,” said John Hubbard, 
with nervous decision. “ They knew every action of her mother 
after she left this country — so old Mr. Cayley told me; they 
now watch her daughter closely, and try to discover everything 
they can about her; and their intensest hope is that she may 
never learn what a splendid property lies at her command, so 
that it may revert to them or their heirs, as the will directs. 
And what a property it is, Fred !” 

“ Ah ! I suppose so,” said the count, with a sigh. 


THE COUNT’S BROTHER. 


69 


To do him justice, he did not consider so much as another 
might have done the money he would get by marrying Miss 
Brunei : his desire to marry her was wholly selfish, but the self- 
ishness was begotten of no greed of money. 

“ The trustees are as diligent in looking after the property as 
though it were to be given up to-morrow. And how those rents 
accumulate ! It was Lord Belsford who proposed to use up some 
of the money in buying off the mortgages which still hung over 
the Northamptonshire estate from the time of the marquis’s fa- 
ther ; and, now that has been done, it is nothing but a huge ma- 
chine turning out money for nobody’s use.” 

The little nervous lawyer seemed to be quite overwhelmed by 
the contemplation of such a thing. If he had had the option 
of becoming the proprietor of this valuable coining-machine, he 
would not have allowed the opportunity to pass. And even now 
it occurred to him that in the event of his brother marrying Miss 
Brunei, and acquiring this vast wealth, the count might, out of 
gratitude for the service done him in the matter, leave his thirty 
thousand pounds a year to the young gentleman in the adjoining 
drawing-room. The alternative was possible, but it was remote. 
John Hubbard would vastly have preferred his brother remaining 
unmarried. 

“You know why I am so anxious to know all about this mat- 
ter, Jack,” said the count, uneasily. 

His brother nodded. 

“It is a hazardous thing — seems to me almost impossible,” 
continued the count — and he was never tired of reiterating his 
doubts on the subject — “ that such a fortune and title should be- 
long to anybody without their knowing it.” 

“ It was her mother’s wish,” said John Hubbard. 

“ Oh, I know,” said the count, “ that she has been brought up 
to regard with apprehension every one out of her profession ; and 
I know she believes that under no circumstances ought she to 
leave the stage. And yet I fancy she will not be very grateful 
either to her mother, or to old Mr. Cayley, or to the trustees, for 
keeping her in ignorance of her good fortune. And if she should 
consent to be my wife, she will probably accuse me of having 
used the secret for my own purpose.” 

The count spoke as if such an accusation would do him a great 
injury. But the possibility of the future he had chalked out for 


70 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


himself drove away this ugly after - thought. He became quite 
excited. His face was flushed ; his hand trembled as he lifted 
his glass. 

“ God knows,” he said, earnestly, “ that it is not her money I 
want. I’m not a fortune-hunter.” 

“You have a lot of money,” said his brother, gently, while he 
watched his face with those mild gray eyes. “ If you were to 
marry Miss Brunei, you could afford to part with what you have 
now.” 

“ What do you take me for ?” said the count, with a touch of 
virtuous indignation. “ If I were to marry Miss Brunei, I should 
insist on her settling all her money on herself. I have enough to 
live upon, thank God !” 

John Hubbard’s mind was made up on the spot. 

“ You will never marry Miss Brunei, Fred,” he said, quietly. 

“ Why ?” said the other, suddenly putting down the glass he 
had been lifting. 

“Simply because her relatives on -the father’s side won’t al- 
low it.” 

“You said they — ” 

“They are content to say nothing-while they hope to secure 
the reversion of the property through Miss Brunei’s dying in- 
testate,” said John Hubbard, calmly, though his' eyebrows were 
twitching nervously. “When, however, they understand that 
you, a brother of mine, and therefore likely to know how matters 
stand, are about to marry Miss Brunei, they will inform her of 
her true position, and implore her not to marry a man beneath 
her in rank. And you know, Fred, they will be able to point to 
your previous silence as a witness against you.” 

The first impulse of Count Schonstein was to dart an angry 
glance at the pale, quiet little man before him, as though the lat- 
ter had dealt him an unprovoked blow ; then, when he saw in his 
brother’s calm face only corroborative testimony of the appalling 
truth he had uttered, the count leaned back in his chair, unable 
to conceal his fright and dismay. 

At that moment, Master Alexander entered the room, and said, 

“Please, Uncle Frederick, mamma says^coffee is in the draw- 
ing-room, and will you come and have some ?” 

“ Yes, yes, my boy,” said the count, jumping up from his chair. 

He scarcely knew what he was about. John Hubbard rose 


THE COUNT’S BROTHER. 


VI 


also, and then they walked into the drawing-room, where Mrs. 
Hubbard saw something in her brother-in-law’s face which she 
not unnaturally, but quite wrongly,, attributed to his having taken 
too much wine. 

Miss Fleet, Mrs. Hubbard’s sister, was singing a certain popular 
ballad, expressing her wish that the laird might marry the lady 
of high degree, and declaring that, for her part, she would sooner 
dance upon the green with Donald. Miss Fleet’s voice trembled 
consciously when the count entered the room. She was a fine, 
roseate, country -looking woman of twenty -six or twenty -seven, 
much coarser and stouter than her elder sister ; and she sung with 
those broad alternations of piano and forte which some girls, and 
nearly all actresses, consider to be effective. Miss Fleet, now that 
the count had come in, simply roared in the louder passages, and 
then subsided into an almost inaudible whisper when she meant 
to be particularly tender. 

“ Thank you — thank you,” said the count, absently, when she 
had finished ; but her ear cDtected no particular emphasis in the 
words for which she had befen. waiting. 

Rose Villa was not a large place, but it possessed the advantage 
of being enclosed ; and from the drawing-room one could slip out 
into a small garden which was quite surrounded and guarded by 
a row of trees. The count sat at the French window leading out 
into this garden ; and was so forgetful of all common politeness 
as to stare persistently out into the darkness, where the tall black 
trees were grouped in masses against the faint twinkling sky. 

Like a government suddenly knocked out of its reckoning by 
an adverse vote, he “ wished to consider his position.” There 
had been plenty of difficulties in the way before ; but this last 
stumbling-block so cruelly pointed out by his brother seemed the 
most irremovable of all. In a moment of temporary spleen, he 
was almost ready to give the whole thing up, and return to — 

Then a vision of that lonely great house near St. Mary-Kirby 
arose before him, and he shrunk from the weariness and dulness 
of his life there, from the restless hoping against hope which he 
had pursued there, from the constant disappointments following 
his best-directed efforts. 

If he were to marry the girl, would not his path be 'clear ? 
Beautiful in person, graceful in manner, with an intellect a thou- 
sand times superior to that of any woman she was likely to meet. 


72 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


he would have every reason to be proud of his wife ; and then, 
as the husband of Lady Annie Ormond, the only daughter of the 
Marquis of Knottingley, and the owner of those fine estates which 
had such tempting shooting, would not their friendship be sought 
after and valued by the very persons who now, taking their cue 
from the lord chamberlain, doubtless, were graceless enough to 
look upon him as an interloper or adventurer ? 

Not by means of any chain of philosophic reasoning, but 
through a bitter experience, Count Schonstein had arrived at the 
conclusion that a large sum of money, per se , was not happiness. 
It was doubtless very well that he could have the finest wines and 
cigars, drive in comfortable vehicles, and be unhampered in spend- 
ing money ostentatiously ; but even when he was only a tea- 
broker, he had a modest brougham, such wine and cigars as he 
required, and spent quite as much in fashionable charities as he 
did now. He had found out that a man cannot, by doubling his 
income, eat two dinners a day instead of one. With thirty thou- 
sand a year he could drink no more wine than was possible to 
him when his annual income was to be counted in hundreds. Con- 
sequently, he got tired of material pleasures which could not be 
increased ; and sometimes he even ceased to enjoy boasting of the 
high prices he paid for such luxuries as he used. Like every oth- 
er human being, he was forced to fix his desires upon something 
he did not possess ; and he stupidly chose a difficult thing. Un- 
aided, he might as well have sought to get up a crusade among 
Scotchmen for the restoration of the sacred stone which now rests 
in Westminster Abbey. He had set his heart upon gaining ad- 
mission to the aristocracy, and the moon for which he cried was 
to be reached by no ladder of his making. 

Mrs. Hubbard thought he was ill. Having attentively but cov- 
ertly regarded him for some time, she went to her husband, who 
was getting himself another cup of coffee. 

“John,” she whispered, “ has your brother beeii drinking Miss 
Betham’s sherry by mistake ?” 

“ No, my dear ; how could he ? There was none on the table.” 

Off goes Master Alexander to his uncle. 

“Uncle Frederick, mamma wants to know if you have been 
drinking Miss Betham’s sherry.” 

“ If you will tell me who Miss Betharn is, I shall be able to — ” 

“Don’t you know Miss Betharn, our goVerness? She has some 


THE COUNT'S BROTHER. 


73 


sherry every day for lunch, and nobody else will take the sherry 
that’s kept for her, and — ” 

“ Never mind the boy,” said John Hubbard, coming hastily for- 
ward, with an awkward laugh. “ It was only a joke. I said you 
looked as dull as though you’d been drinking Miss Betham’s 
sherry : we do keep a light wholesome wine for her, and for the 
servants, when they get ill, you know.” 

Master Alexander said nothing, but he resolved to inform Miss 
Betham of the “crammer” his papa had made use of. Nor did 
TJncle Frederick care to ask how a light and wholesome wine 
(which in reality would have blushed at the sight of a grape) was 
likely to have made him ill. 

The count rose abruptly, opened the glass door, and, without a 
word of apology to the ladies, beckoned his brother to follow. 
They passed out into the garden, and the count began to pace 
heavily up and down the gravelled pathway under the trees. 

“ I can’t afford to give up this so easily as you seem to think, 
Jack,” he said ; and he spoke roughly and angrily. 

“ I always knew you had a strong will, Frederick,” said his 
brother, gently. 

“ I’ve set my heart on it, I tell you. What’s the use of my 
money to me? D — n it, Jack, I might as well be down in Thames 
Street again !” 

“ Few people would grumble if they had your good luck,” said 
the elder brother, in his mildest voice. 

“ I don’t care what few people, or what many people, would 
do. I know that when I make up my mind to a thing, I stick 
to it; and instead of you sitting quietly by and throwing obsta- 
cles in my way, the least you ought to do would be to help 
me.” 

“You’re very unfair, Fred,” said John Hubbard, in an injured 
tone. “ Wasn’t I the first to tell you about Miss Brunei ? And 
now — ” 

“ And now you try to throw cold water on the whole business. 
But I am not a child. Miss Brunei’s friends may be very aristo- 
cratic and very fine, but they have not all the power in their 
hands. Look here, Jack, what’s to prevent my marrying Miss 
Brunei before they know anything about it ? And after the mar- 
riage is over they may make what disclosures they please ; I shall 
be beforehand with them.” 


4 


u 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Are you sure that Miss Brunei will marry you, Fred ?” said 
his brother, insidiously. 

The count laughed out, in his stormy and contemptuous way, 

“Your brain has been turned, Jack, by hearing of that one ac- 
tress who refused a lot of money. Take my word for it, you will 
never hear of another. If I offer Annie Brunei Balnacluith Place, 
my house in Bayswater, the place over in Baden, what horses and 
carriages she pleases, with as much company at home and gadding 
about abroad as she can wish for, I am not very apprehensive 
about her answer. When we were younger, Jack, we could have 
imagined some Joan of Arc declining these things ; but now we 
know better.” 

“ It is a strong temptation,” said his brother, absently : he did 
not like to say how very uncertain he considered Annie Brunei’s 
acceptance of the offer. 

“And, besides,” added the count, with virtuous warmth, “I do 
not think I flatter myself when I look upon the money as not the 
only inducement. I’ll make as good a husband to her as any one 
I know ; and I don’t think my disposition is quarrelsome or nig- 
gardly. And besides, Jack, she must remember that it is not ev- 
ery one who would marry an actress, and consent never to look 
into her past life, which in the case of an actress must have been 
made up of a good many experiences, you know. Of course I 
don’t mean to depreciate her. She is doubtless a very honest, and 
good, and lady-like girl ; but still — she mustn’t expect too much.” 

And the count was quite sincere in making this ingenuous 
speech. He rather considered himself a praiseworthy person in 
stooping to this unequal match. He had not the least percep- 
tion of the selfishness of the view he took of the whole matter. 
It was quite natural to him to think only of his own ends and 
purposes, and he took no shame to himself for it. He never for 
a moment regarded the scheme from her point of view, nor stayed 
to inquire what might be the possible results of it where she was 
concerned. He did not even consider what her regard for him 
would probably be after she discovered the reasons which had in- 
duced him to marry her ; nor that she was likely to have little 
respect for a man who had played upon her ignorance to further 
his own designs. The count was conscious of acting quite hon- 
estly (to his own nature), and never thought that any one would 
accuse him of deceit in so doing. 


MISS BRUNEL AT HOME. 


75 


CHAPTER X. 

MISS BRUNEL AT HOME. 

Will Anerley did not forget his promise to visit Annie 
Brunei, but be seemed in no burry to fulfil it. Had he been a 
young man about town, the temptation of having something spe- 
cial to say at his club or at dancing-parties about the new actress,' 
of whom everybody was talking, would have proved too much for 
him. When a man, however, spends most of his dancing years 
abroad, and ^ets a good deal knocked about the world, he ceases 
to long for t'he petty celebrity of social gossip, and has no great 
desire to become a temporary hero among a lot of well-meaning 
but not very profound people, who are sure to mispronounce his 
name and take him for somebody else. 

It happened one morning, however, that he had been invited to 
breakfast with a noble lord, then in the Government, who was de- 
sirous of getting some special information wherewith to confound 
an opposition member who had given notice of his intention to 
ask a particularly ugly question in the House. His lordship 
thanked Will heartily for his kindness, hoped he might be able 
to return the service in some slight way, hinted something about 
a day’s fishing if Anerley happened to be in the neighborhood 
of a place of which he had never heard before, and then proceed- 
ed to get in order the catapult with which he hoped that evening 
to demolish the indiscreet member. 

Having nothing particular to do just then, Will thought he 
would take a stroll in Kensington Gardens, and proceeded to take 
a short cut in that direction. Passing a little cul-de-sac of a 
street, which had not above half a dozen houses on each side, it 
struck him that the name on the wall was familiar to him. He 
then remembered that this was the place in which Annie Brunei 
lived ; and, thinking the occasion very opportune, he turned the 
corner and walked down to the proper house. They were very 
pretty little houses, with white pillars and porticos draped with 
Virginian creepers, and with a good many trees around them. 


76 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


Miss Brunei had been fortunate enough to get the offer of one 
of these houses, furnished, at a moderate rent, and she and Mrs. 
Christmas had decided at once to accept it. It was a quiet little 
place, pleasantly situated, with a tolerably large garden behind. 

Will passed inside the gate, and was about to ascend the steps, 
when the door above was opened, and a young lady came out of 
the house. Somehow he fancied he had seen her before — where, 
he knew not. She was rather an attractive-looking little person, 
with a pert, slightly upturned nose, big and rather wicked blue 
eyes, short, loose brown curls, and a decided look of violet-pow- 
der about her forehead and neck. The saucy bright eyes looked 
‘at Will for a moment with a bold, familiar glance, and there was 
a shadow of a smile on her pretty lips. 

Of course he took off his hat, and muttered something like 
“ Good-morning.” 

“ Good-morning,” she said, holding out her hand, and looking 
at him with those dangerous blue eyes. “Don’t you remember 
me ?” 

The moment he heard the voice, he recognized it. It was the 
thrilling voice of “Perseus,” of “Good-for-nothing” Nan, of 
“ Peggy Green,” of “ The Little Rebel,” of “ Mrs. White,” of 
“ Fatima,” of “ Rose Dufard ” — of Nelly Featherstone. Had 
her eyelashes been caked with cosmetic, her lips reddened with 
salve, and the violet-powder of her face tempered with glycerine 
and rouge, he would have recognized her at once ; but there was 
a good deal of difference between Miss Featherstone in morning 
costume, with cold daylight on her face, and Miss Featherstone 
in the dashing and glittering garments of Conrad the Corsair, 
with the glare of the foot-lights on her forced complexion and 
brilliant ornaments. For the rest, he had only heard of her as a 
good and well-meaning little girl, to whom Nature had given a 
deadly pair of eyes and a warm temperament. He was at first 
rather taken aback by her proffered friendship, but a few com- 
monplaces relieved him from the predicament. She gave him a 
parting smile full of sweetness ; and he went up to the door and 
entered the house, leaving his card with the servant. 

Presently Mrs. Christmas entered the drawing-room, and said 
that Miss Brunei would be glad to see him out in the garden, 
where she was then engaged. 

“ You seem to have been ill, Mrs. Christmas,” said Will. “ I 


MISS BRUNEL AT HOME. 


77 


hope that wild adventure upon Hounslow Heath had nothing to 
do with it.” 

“ Indeed, I’m afraid it had, Mr. Anerley,” said the little woman, 
whose bright eyes were unnaturally bright, her face also being 
unusually pale. “I have never been well since; but old folks 
like me mustn’t complain, you know, Mr. Anerley. We mustn’t 
complain if we get ill at times.” 

“ I’m sorry you’ve been ill. You ought to go and live in the 
warm, fresh air of the country, when the summer’s fully in.” 

“ I’ve never left Miss Annie for a day since her mother died, 
Mr. Anerley, and I’m not going to forsake her now. It would be 
hard on both of us.” 

“ But she might go with you.” 

“ That’s easy saying.” 

They went out and crossed a little bit of lawn, which had a 
few vases upon it, and here and there a plot of spring annuals. 
A short distance down the side-path they came to a small sum- 
mer-house,' which was arched over with a piece of light frame- 
work ; and in front of this framework stood Annie Brunei, on a 
chair, tying up with loops of string the bright - leaved creepers, 
which were yet in their erratic youth. Her hands were busy 
over her head, and her face was upturned, showing the fine out- 
line of her neck and figure — a shapeliness of bust which was not 
lessened by a tight-fitting and pretty morning-dress, which Will 
thought the most graceful thing he had ever seen, particularly as 
it caught streaks of sunlight now and again through the diamond 
spaces above. 

When he went up to her and shook hands with her, he fancied 
he observed a slight tinge of embarrassment in her face ; but that 
quickly wore off, and she returned to her usual bright happiness 
of manner, continuing her work by fits and snatches. And every 
position into which her beautiful figure fell seemed more admira- 
ble than its predecessor. 

“ I wonder,” thought Will, “ if any man ever lifted her down 
from the saddle; and did he immediately die of joy?” 

Perhaps he was sorry at the moment that one’s descent from a 
chair is so obviously an easy feat. 

“ I’m doing this out of pure mischief,” she said, “ and earning 
for myself such heaps of muttered scolding and ill-will. The 
gardener comes to us twice a week ; and he is quite savage if I 


78 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


have meddled with anything in the mean time. I can’t pacify 
him. I have tried every means, but he is too obdurate. Miss 
Featherstone says I ought to hire a young gardener, and I might 
have the garden done any way I wished.” 

“ Sulky servants are always the best servants,” said Will, rather 
absently ; for the clear, dark Italian face, and the bright smile, 
and the white teeth, oppressed him with a vague, delicious melan- 
choly. “But a gardener, whether he is good or bad, is always 
sulky. My mother is afraid to touch one of the plants in the 
greenhouse until it is half withered ; and when some people 
come, and she carries off a lot of the plants for the hall and din- 
ner-table, she trembles to meet the old man next morning. I 
suppose gardeners get so fond of their flowers as to be jealous, 
and jealousy is always cross. By -the -bye, wasn’t that Miss 
Featherstone who left as I came in ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I scarcely knew her. In fact, I only saw her once before off 
the stage — at that supper; and yet she was kind enough to bid 
me good-morning.” 

“ Then she must have thought you were a newspaper gentle- 
man,” said Mrs. Christmas, with a good - natured little laugh. 
“ She is very partial to them. And that one she knows just now 
teaches her such dreadful things, and the heedless girl repeats 
them wherever she goes, to make people laugh. What was it 
she said this morning, Miss Annie? — that on St. Patrick’s Day 
there were so many wicked things done in Ireland, that the re- 
cording angel had to take to short-hand.” 

“ Well, Lady Jane,” said Miss Brunei, “ you need not have re- 
peated what she said; and it’s very wrong of you to say any- 
thing against poor Nelly, who is a warm - hearted, mad little 
creature.” 

“ She’s not so simple as she looks,” said Mrs. Christmas, nod- 
ding her head sagaciously. “ I am an old woman, and I know. 
And the way she uses that poor young gentleman— him in the 
Government office, who was at the supper, you know, Mr. Anerley 
— is downright shameful. She told me this morning that he 
made her swear on an open Prayer-book never to put bismuth on 
her arms or neck again ; I suppose because he expects to marry 
her, and doesn’t want to have her all shrivelled up, and bismuth 
is very bad, you know, for that ; and that newspaper gentleman 


MISS BRUNEL AT HOME. 


79 


whom she knows said, whenever she wanted to quarrel with the 
poor young man, and make him believe that she had perjured 
herself all for the love of shiny white arms, she ought to — !” 

“Mr. Anerley,” said the young girl, looking down from her 
work, “ will you silence that talkative child by giving it a piece 
of sugar? What must you think of us actresses if she goes on 
like that ?” 

“ She — bah !” said the old woman, in a melodramatic whisper, 
with a nod towards Miss Brunei. “ She knows no more of Nelly 
Featherstone and the rest of ’em than an infant does. They 
don’t talk to her like they do to an old woman like me.” 

“Now I have finished,” said the young lady, jumping lightly 
down from the chair (Will did not even get the chance of tak- 
ing her hand), “ and we’ll go inside, if you please.” 

“ Shall I bring in the chair ?” asked Will. 

“Oh no ! We leave the old thing out here : it is for no other 
use.” 

Somehow it seemed to be quite a valuable chair in his eyes: 
he would have given a good deal to be its owner just then. 

As they got in-doors, Mrs. Christmas went up-stairs, and Will 
followed Annie Brunei into the drawing-room, which was rather 
prettily furnished, and had a good deal of loose music scattered 
about the tables and piano. He had been in finer drawing-rooms, 
with grander ladies, and yet he had never before felt so rough and 
uncultivated. He wished he had looked particularly at his hair 
and mustache before coming out, and hoped they were not very 
matted, and loose, and reckless — which they certainly were. In- 
deed, he looked like some stalwart and bronzed seaman who had 
just come off a long voyage, and who seemed to regard with a 
sort of wonder the little daintinesses of land-life. 

“ I thought you had quite run away with my sis — , with that 
young lady, the other evening when she went to see you,” he 
said. 

“ You would have been sorry for that,” she replied, with a 
quiet smile. 

Will was not at all so pleased with the gentle motherly tone in 
which she uttered these words as he ought to have been. She 
seemed to take it for granted that his love-secret was known to 
her; he would have preferred — without any particular reason — 
its not being known. 


80 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“What a gentle, lovable girl she is!” continued the young 
actress. “I never knew any one who so thoroughly won me 
over in a few minutes. She was so sweet, and quiet, and frank ; 
one could tell by her face everything she thought. She must be 
very sensitive and affectionate : I hope so tender a creature will 
never have to suffer much. And you — you must be very proud 
of her.” 

“We all are.” 

Miss Brunei widened her eyes slightly, but said nothing. 

“ By-the-way,” said Will, with an evident effort, “ I gathered 
together a number of Suabian peasant-songs when I was out there, 
which I should like to hear you sing. I know you will like them, 
they are so tender and simple. Dove has tried one or two of 
them, but her voice is scarcely low and full enough for them — ” 

“ Dove is your sister's name, is it not ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And how do you know I can sing at all ?” she asked, with a 
smile. 

“As well ask a star if it has light,” said he, warmly. 

“ You have lived too long in the East,” she retorted, gently. 

When Mrs. Christmas came into the room at that moment there 
was a slight constraint visible upon both the young people. Will 
felt that he had gone a little too far, while Annie Brunei seemed 
to think that she had rather rudely warned him off such danger- 
ous ground. The danger was not in the words, but in his tone. 

Mrs. Christmas had just received an East London local paper, 
in which some youthful poet had poured forth his rhapsodies 
over Annie Brunei and her Juliet. There was nothing remarka- 
ble in the verses, except that the author hoped to meet Miss Bru- 
nei in heaven. This was natural enough. The almost inevitable 
climax of a commonplace poem is heaven, simply because heaven 
is the only idealism of commonplace minds. It is almost a mat- 
ter of necessity, therefore, that hymns should end with “ above,” 
or “ Eden,” or “ Paradise ;” and that magazine poets should lay 
down their pen with a sigh of relief when they have left their 
readers somewhere among the fixed stars. 

“ It is kind of him to suppose that an actress may get to heav- 
en at all,” said Annie Brunei, when Mrs. Christmas had read the 
verses. 

Once or twice before Will had remarked this tendency towards 


MISS BRUNEL AT HOME. 


81 


bitterness of feeling in the young girl’s contemplation of the 
non-professional world. He could not divine its cause. He was 
vexed to see it ; and now he said, boldly, 

“You ought not to speak like that, Miss Brunei. You wrong 
both yourself and those of whom you speak. You really have 
imbibed — I don’t know how — a singular prejudice against people 
out of your own profession.” 

“ Don’t they refuse in France to bury actors in consecrated 
ground ?” 

“If they did, the freaks of a clergy should never be blamed 
upon the people of any country. I suppose the priests, through 
the use of the confessional, were so dismayed about the prospects 
of their charge in the next world, that they thought this distinc- 
tion the only piece of worldly consolation they could give them. 
But, indeed, Miss Brunei, you must abandon that touch of Bo- 
hemianism which you unconsciously allow to escape you some- 
times, and which is unfair to — ” 

“I won’t have you argue for these people,” she said, with a 
smile. “ I was glad you came here this morning, for I want to 
win you over to us. Didn’t I say, Lady Jane, when I first met 
him, that he was so unlike the other — what shall I call them ? — 
outsiders ? Well, perhaps it is foolish of me to talk about these 
people, for I know nothing whatever of them ; but I have been 
educated to consider them as so much raw material to be deluded 
and impressed by stage effect, and I shall never be able to regard 
them as anything else than strangers. Haven’t you seen the lit- 
tle girl in pink cotton and spangles who stands by while her fa- 
ther is performing tricks before a lot of village people ? Haven’t 
you seen her watch all the faces round, calculating the effect of 
the performance, and wondering how much it will produce in 
half-pence ? No, you needn’t laugh : that is precisely my attitude 
and feeling towards the public.” 

“ You may tell that to one who has never seen you on the 
stage,” said Will. “ I know that you have no more thought of 
calculating the effect of what you are doing than the music of a 
violin has.” 

“ That is because I am then a performer myself, and have to 
attend to my business. When I stand in one of the entrances, 
and hear the buzz of the theatre, I say to myself, ‘ My big chil- 
dren up there in the boxes, you have paid so much to be amused, 

4 * 


82 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


and you don’t care much for me ; but in a few minutes I’ll have 
you all as quiet as mice, and in a few minutes more I’ll have the 
prettiest and best among you crying.’ ” 

“ My poor Dove’s eyes were tremulous all the evening after 
seeing you,” he said. 

“ I like to hear you speak kindly of her,” she replied, looking 
him straight in the face with her clear and frank eyes. “ She 
will need all the tenderness that friends can give her to make her 
life a happy one.” 

Will felt a dull sense of pain at his heart (why, he knew not) 
on hearing these true and touching words : somehow he fancied 
there was a sympathy almost pathetic in them. 

“ Come,” she said, briskly, as she rose and went to the piano, 
“ I am going to put you to the test. I make all my new friends 
submit to it; and according as they pass through it I regard 
them afterward. I am going to play three funeral marches — 
Handel’s, Beethoven’s, and Mendelssohn’s. When the person ex- 
perimented on prefers a certain one of them, I consider her — I 
have not tried the experiment on a gentleman as yet — merely 
emotional and commonplace ; therefore I don’t care much for 
her. If she likes a certain other one, I think she is rather more 
intellectual, with some dramatic sensitiveness ; and then I like her 
a good deal better. When she likes the third, then I think she 
must have the divinest sympathies, and I am ready to fall in love 
with her.” 

She had sat down to the piano. 

“ But the peril of failure is too great ; I dare not risk it,” said 
Will. “ It is as hard a trial as the three caskets in the ‘ Merchant 
of Venice ;’ only, if the prize were to be the same, the chance — ” 

He had spoken quite thoughtlessly ; but he saw in a moment, 
by the pain and confusion of the young actress, what a blunder 
he had made. 

“ Pray don’t mind what I said, Miss Brunei,” he urged. “ I 
was talking to you without thinking, as I should have talked to 
Dove. I will submit to the three funeral marches, if you like — ” 

“ I will spare you,” she said, good-naturedly. “ If you had some 
of your Suabian songs here just now, I should sing them to you. 
But really it seems a pity to use up such fine weather in-doors. 
Are you particularly engaged to-day ?” 

“ I have no engagement, if I can be of service to you.” 


IN THE PARK. 


8b 

“ Mr. Anerley, I am neither a bulbul nor a gazelle. Shall I be 
trespassing on your time if I ask you to take a walk with me ?” 

“ No.” 

“Lady Jane — Mrs. Christmas, I mean — and I take a stroll un- 
der the trees in Kensington Gardens every forenoon when I have 
no rehearsal.” 

“And I,” said Will, “was on my way to the same place, for 
the same purpose, when I happened to see the name of the street, 
and thought I might venture to trespass on your patience.” 

So she went and dressed ; and then together they passed out 
into the open air and the sunlight. 

Will Anerley left that house a very different man from him 
who had entered it an hour and a half before. Nor was he con- 
scious of the change. 


CHAPTER XI. 

IN THE PARK. 

He only knew that he experienced a subtle pleasure in listen- 
ing to the talk of this young girl, in watching the varying ex- 
pression of her face, in admiring her beautiful eyes. The easy 
and graceful friendship they both seemed to entertain for each 
other was the simplest, most natural thing in the world. There 
could be no danger in it. Anerley’s life had been too full of ac- 
tion to give him the deadly gift of introspection ; but in no pos- 
sible mood of self-analysis could he have regarded the temporary 
satisfaction of being near to and talking with the young actress 
as anything else than a pleasant and ordinary and harmless ac- 
cident. He never for a moment dreamed of its producing any 
great result. Had the thing been suggested to him, he would 
have replied that both he and she understood each other perfect- 
ly ; they had plenty to think of in life without indulging in fol- 
ly ; they had their separate work and interests and duties, and the 
casual pleasure they might obtain by meeting as acquaintances 
was nobody’s concern but their own. 

The first attitude of affection is exclusiveness. When one sees 
two young people sending glances across a dinner-table which are 
intelligible to themselves alone — when one perceives them whis- 


84 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


pering to each other while elsewhere the talk is general — when 
*one observes them, on opposite sides at croquet, missing hoops, 
and slipping balls, and playing to aid each other in the most gra- 
tuitous, open, and unblushing manner, it needs no profound divi- 
nation to detect a secret copartnership between them. Two quite 
unselfish lovers immediately become selfish in their united posi- 
tion of antagonism to the rest of the world. And when the girl 
is pretty, the rest of the world consider such selfishness to be sim- 
ply hateful. 

These two young people, who were not lovers, nor had any in- 
tention of becoming lovers, walked up Victoria Road, and so made 
their way into the cool green shadow of the great elms and leafy 
lindens which make Kensington Gardens so delightful a lounge. 
It was now May — the only month in which London trees seem to 
look cheerful — and the weather was at its freshest and best. 

“Mr. Melton proposes to close the theatre in a week or so,” 
said Annie Brunei, “for a month, in order to have it done up 
anew. He is very anxious that I should not accept any engage- 
ment for that month ; and I have been thinking I ought to take 
Mrs. Christmas down to the sea-side, or perhaps over to the warm 
banks of the Rhine, for a week or two. Did you remark how 
very poorly she is?” 

“I did,” said Will. “I asked her about it. She seems to 
fancy that our madcap journey to Hounslow Heath brought the 
attack on.” 

“ The grass was so wet, you know. I blame myself for it all ; 
and indeed there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the dear old creat- 
ure. She was my only companion and friend for many a year.” 

“Won’t you find it very dull going away all by yourselves?” 

“Well, no. She is never dull. I never tire of her society 
a moment — she is so full of vivacity and kindliness and funny 
stories ; but I do not like the idea of our going away anywhere 
alone. Hitherto, you know, I have always been, in a manner, 
compelled to go by an engagement.” 

“ Bring her down to St. Mary-Kirby, and let Dove and you go 
about with her.” 

“ Thank you. You have told me so much of that quiet little 
valley, and the quiet way of living there, that I should feel like 
an evil spirit invading paradise.” 

“ Now, now — you are at it again,” he said, laughing. “ I won’t 


IN THE PARK. 


85 


have you malign our honest country folks like that. My mother 
would make you her daughter : she has a general faculty for mak- 
ing pets of everybody. And my father would give you a touch 
of the old squire-like courtesy he sometimes brings out when he 
is very grand and polite to some London young lady who comes 
down to see us.” 

She only smiled in reply — a trifle sadly. 

“ I should like to see a little of that peaceful sort of life — per- 
haps even to try it. Day after day to be always the same, always 
meeting the same people, always looking out on the same trees 
and fields and river, and hoping only for some change in the 
weather, or for a favorable turn to the fortunes of one’s pet hero. 
But then other cares must come. That gentle little Dove, for in- 
stance — isn’t she sitting just now wondering when you will come to 
see her, and getting quite vexed because you stay so long away ?” 

“ You seem to have a great affection for Dove,” he said. 

“Haven’t you?” 

“Well, of course; who could help it?” 

“ If I were a man I should not try to help it ; I should be 
prouder of the love of such a girl than of anything under heaven.” 

Such conversations are not common between young unmarried 
people, but neither of these two seemed to consider it strange 
that they should so talk ; for, indeed, Annie Brunei assumed tow- 
ards Will an amusingly matter-of-fact, kindly, almost maternal 
manner — so much so that, without hesitation, she would have told 
him that a little more attention to the brushing of his rough 
brown hair and mustache might not have been inappropriate be- 
fore visiting a lady. Sometimes he was amused, sometimes tan- 
talized, by this tone. He was a man verging towards thirty, who 
had all his wits about him, who had seen plenty of the world, 
and knew far more of its ways and beliefs and habits than he 
would have liked to reveal to his companion then beside him ; 
and he could scarcely refrain from laughing at the airs of superior 
worldly wisdom which the young actress gave herself, revealing 
in the assumption the charming simplicity of her character. 

They walked down one of the long avenues and crossed over 
into Hyde Park. The Row was very full at this time ; and the 
brightness of the day seemed to have awoke an artificial briskness 
among the melancholy men and plethoric girls who had come out 
for their forced exercise. 


86 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ I have been in nearly every capital in Europe,” said Will to 
his companion, “ and I have never seen such a company of hand- 
some men and women as you may see here almost any day. And 
I never saw anywhere people out to enjoy themselves looking so 
intensely sad over it.” 

“ These are my employers,” said Miss Brunei, with a smile on her 
pale, dark face. “ These are the people who pay me to amuse them.” 

“ Look at this big, heavy man coming up now,” said Will. 
“Look how he bobs in his saddle; one doesn’t often see such 
a — Why, it is — ” 

“ Count Schonstein,” said Miss Brunei. 

It was. And as the count came up and saw Will walking by 
the side of a closely veiled and gracefully dressed young lady, he 
took off his hat in his finest manner, and was about to ride on. 
Perhaps it was the luxuriant black hair or the graceful figure of 
the young girl which made him pause for a second and recognize 
her. At all events, he no sooner saw who she was than he stop- 
ped his horse, clumsily got down from the saddle, and drawing 
the reins over the animal’s head, came forward to the railing. 

“ The very two people whom I wished to see,” he observed, 
with a pompous magnanimity. (Indeed there were several rea- 
sons why he was glad just then to observe that Annie Brunei had 
taken kindly to the young man whom he had introduced to her.) 
“Do you know, Miss Brunei, that Melton is going to close his 
theatre for a month ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Could anything be more opportune ? Now, listen to what I 
have to propose. You want a good holiday in this fine weather. 
Very well. I must go over to Schonstein at once to see about 
some alterations and improvements I want made ; and I propose 
to make it worth Mr. Anerley’s while to go with me and superin- 
tend part of these improvements. That is an affair of necessity 
and business on my part and his ; but why should you and Mrs. 
Christmas not accept our convoy over there ? Even if you only 
go as far as one of the Rhine villages, we could see you safely 
that distance. Or if I could persuade you to come and see my 
place, such as it is — for a week or two. I think the excursion 
would be delightful ; and if I can’t entertain you as sumptuously 
as a king, yet I won’t starve you, and I’ll give you the best wine 
to be bought for good money in Baden.” 


IN THE PARK. 


8*7 


Will colored up at the hideous barbarity of the closing sen- 
tence ; but Miss Brunei answered, good-naturedly, 

“You’re very kind indeed, count; and I am sure the wine 
must be a great inducement to Mr. Anerley. But if I go any- 
where for a holiday, it will be for Mrs. Christmas’s sake ; and I 
must see what she says about it first.” 

“ Oh, if it is Mrs. Christmas,” said the count, with a laugh, 
“ I must try to persuade her.” 

“ No ; I won’t have any coercion. I will place the matter be- 
fore her in all its details, and she shall decide. If we don’t go, I 
hope you’ll have a pleasant journey all the same.” 

“ And as for you, Anerley, what do you say ?” 

“ As our arrangement will be a business matter, we’ll settle it 
another time,” said Will, in a decided tone, which prevented the 
count making further reference to buying and selling. 

“I won’t take any denial from any one of you,” said the 
count, with a prodigious laugh. “As for Mrs. Christmas, if that 
little woman dares to thwart me, I’ll have her portrait published 
in the illustrated papers as the wife of Rip Van Winkle.” 

With which astounding witticism, the count proceeded to get 
on horseback again — a rather difficult matter. Will held the 
stirrup for him, however, and eventually he shook himself into 
the saddle. 

Annie Brunei had lifted her veil to speak to the count ; and as 
her companion now saw that there was a good deal of whispering 
and nodding going on among several knots of riders, he thought 
it prudent to withdraw himself and her into the Park. From 
thence they took their way back through Kensington Gardens, 
and so home. 

“ Would it look strange in English eyes,” asked Miss Brunei, 
frankly, “if Mrs. Christmas and I, in travelling about, were to 
visit the count’s place ?” 

“I don’t think so,” said Will. “And if it did, it wouldn’t 
matter. I think the party would be a very merry and pleasant 
one; and you would not allow Mrs. Christmas to feel that for 
her sake you were moping alone in some dull sea-side lodgings. 
The count is really very good-natured and kind ; and I think you 
would enjoy the quaint old people and their manners down in the 
. Black Forest.” 

“ Have you been there 2” 


88 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Oh yes. I have had a passing glance at every place, pretty 
nearly. There you may have a little deer-shooting, if you like. 
I have seen two ladies go out with guns, though they never did 
anything beyond letting one of the guns fall and nearly killing a 
keeper.” 

“ Will it be very expensive going over?” she asked, quite naive- 
ly, as though she had been calculating the propriety of accepting 
a country engagement. 

“ Not at all. Are you going to say ‘ Yes ?’ ” 

“ If Mrs. Christmas does, I will.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

GOOD-BYE. 

“ Cras ingens iterabimus sequor : do you know what that 
means, Dove ?” asked Will. 

“ Something dreadful, I suppose,” she said. 

“Cras, on Monday night; iterabimus , I must leave; ingens 
cequor , for Germany. Didn’t I say I should never leave England 
again without you, Dove? But this is only for a week or two, 
my darling ; and it is on business ; and I am come to crave your 
forgiveness and permission.” 

What did she say ? Not one word. But, being seated at the 
piano just then, and having some knowledge of how she could 
most easily reach her lover’s heart and make him sorry for his 
fickleness, she began to play, with great tenderness, with graceful 
and touching chords, that weird, wild, cruel air, “ The Coulin,” 
the old Irish air, that seems to have in it all the love and agony 
of parting which mankind has ever experienced. It is only now 
and again that humanity has expressed its pain or passion in one 
of those strong, audible throbs — as when, for instance, God put 
the “ Marseillaise ” into the bursting heart of Rouget de Lille. 
One wonders how men live after writing such things. 

And as for Will, he never could bear “ The Coulin.” He put 
his hand on her shoulder, and said, 

“ Don’t play that any more, Dove. That isn’t the parting of 
love at all — it is the parting of death.” 

“ Ah, why should you say that ?” she said, rising, and creeping 


GOOD-BYE. 


89 


close to him, with tears suddenly starting to her eyes — “ why 
should you say that, Will? You don’t expect us to be parted 
that way ?” 

“ Come,” he said, leading her out of the drawing-room into the 
open air. “ The man who wrote ‘ The Coulin ’ had, probably, a 
broken heart; but that is no reason why we should break ours 
over his misery. My father is teaching Carry and Totty to fish 
for sticklebacks in the pond ; shall we go and help them ?” 

He had gone down to bid good-bye to St. Mary-Kirby and its 
people. The warm valley was very tempting at this time; but 
did not peremptory business call him away ? For after the first 
yellow flush of the buttercups had died out of the meadows, they 
were growing white with the snow of the ox-eye; and the wal- 
nut-trees were changing from brown to green ; and instead of the 
lilacs, the bushy, red-budded honeysuckle was opening, and bur- 
dening the air with its perfume. 

Then they had fine weather just then ; would it be finer on the 
Rhine? The white heat of midday was without haze. Sharp 
and clear were the white houses, specks only, on the far uplands ; 
the fir-woods lay black against the blinding sky ; and down here 
in the valley the long-grassed meadows seemed to grow dark in 
the heat, though there was a light shimmering of sunny green 
surrounding like a halo each pollard -willow by the river -side. 
In the clear pools the gray trout threw black shadows on the 
sand beneath, and lay motionless, with their eyes watching your 
every movement on the bank. St. Mary-Kirby lay hot and white 
among the green meadows and by the side of the cool stream ; 
but the people of St. Mary-Kirby prayed for rain to swell the 
fruit of their orchards and fields. 

On their way down to a little gate, which, at one end of Mr. 
Anerley’s garden, allowed you to go out upon a small bank over- 
looking the pond, Will explained to his companion the necessity 
for his going abroad, the probabilities of his stay, and so forth. 
She knew that he was going with Count Schonstein, but she did 
not know that Annie Brunei was to be of the party. Will had 
no particular reason for not mentioning the circumstance ; but, 
as he strictly confined himself to the business aspect of the case, 
Miss Brunei was somehow omitted. 

Nor, when they arrived at the pond, and found Mr. Anerley su- 
perintending the operations of two young anglers, did he consider 


90 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


it necessary to tell his father that Annie Brunei was going with 
them. Perhaps she had slipped out of his mind altogether. Per- 
haps he fancied he had no right to reveal the count’s private ar- 
rangements. At all events, Miss Brunei’s name was not at that 
time mentioned. 

“ The stickleback,” observed Mr. Anerley, sententiously, when 
they drew near, “ must be of very ancient lineage. Any long- 
continued necessity on the part of any animal produces a corre- 
sponding organ or function ; can you explain to me, therefore, 
why Scotchmen are not born with a mackintosh ?” 

“ No,” said Dove. 

“Because Nature has not had time to develop it. You ob- 
serve that my stickleback here, whom I have just caught, has had 
time to acquire special means of defence and attack. I, a man, 
can only clumsily use for defence or attack limbs which are prop- 
erly adapted for other purposes — ” 

“ Which proves that mankind has never experienced the neces- 
sity of having specially destructive organs,” said Will, to Dove’s 
great delight. 

She knew not which, if either, was right ; but the philosopher 
of Chestnut Bank had such a habit of inflicting upon his woman- 
kind theories which they did not understand, and could not con- 
tradict, that she had a malicious pleasure in witnessing what she 
supposed was his discomfiture. 

“It serves you right, papa,” she said. “You presume on our 
ignorance, when you have only mamma and me. Now you have 
somebody to talk to you in your own way.” 

“ When I observed,” continued Mr. Anerley, “ that mankind 
had no special organ of attack and defence, I ought to have ex- 
cluded women. The tongue of woman, an educational result 
which owes its origin to — ” 

“ Don’t let him go on, Dove,” said Will, “ or he’ll say some- 
thing very wicked.” 

“ Has papa been talking nonsense to you ail day, Carry ?” asked 
Dove. 

“ No,” said the matter-of-fact Carry, “ it was the story of the 
‘ King of the White Bears.’ ” 

“ I pghesumed on theigh ignoghance,” said Mr. Anerley, mim- 
icking his adopted daughter’s pronunciation. 

“We must give him up, D©ve,” said Will. “A man who will 


GOOD-BYE. 


91 


employ ridicule in a scientific argument is not worth answering. 
If he were not my father, I should express my feelings more 
strongly ; as it is — ” 

Here Mrs. Anerley appeared, her pretty, kindly face lighted up 
by some unusual and pleasurable excitement. She was almost out 
of breath, too. 

“ Hubert, do you know what’s going to happen ?” 

“ Never having been able, my dear, to calculate the probable 
line of your actions — ” 

“ Be quiet. The bishop is coming to open the church, when 
the alterations are complete. And Mrs. Bexley says that as their 
house is so far off, he will lunch with us.” 

“ Hear me !” observed Mr. Anerley, “ a bishop ! I shall become 
quite respectable. What sort of wine will the exalted creature 
propose to drink — if a bishop drinks at all?” 

“ There will be several clergymen, you know, and — ” 

“ With a bishop in the house, shall I be able to see any lesser 
lights ? I shall allow you women to sit down in the chair he has 
used, as you all do when the Prince of Wales appears in public. 
There is a Hindoo custom resembling this — not wholly a religious 
observance, you know — ” 

Mr. Anerley stopped, perhaps luckily; pretending to have a 
dreadful struggle with an obstinate stickleback. 

“ Mr. Bexley is charmed with the embroidery that Dove has 
done for the altar-cloth,” continued Mrs. Anerley; “and even 
poor old Mr. Ribston came hobbling up to me and said ‘ as it was 
werry nice indeed ; only, ma’am, I should ha’ preferred it without 
the bits o’ red, which is the mark of the Scarlet Woman. Not 
as I mean,’ he said, though, ‘ that either you, ma’am, or Mrs. Bex- 
ley, would turn us into Papishes without our knowin’ of it ; only 
there’s some games up as I hear of, and one has to be p’tickler, 
and not be mixed up wi’ them as is ruinin’ the Church.’ ” 

“Very proper, too,” said Mr. Anerley, having arranged the 
stickleback question. “ I should think that old Ribston fancied 
he had hit you and Dove pretty hard there. Would you think 
Dove was a pupil of the Scarlet Woman, Carry ?” 

“ Who is the Scarlet Woman ?” said Carry, with her big, brown 
eyes staring. 

“Mother Redcap,” said Mr. Anerley. “A relation of the old 
woman who lived in a shoe.” 


92 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Hubert,” said Mrs. Anerley, sharply, “ you may teach the chil- 
dren stickleback fishing, but you’d better leave other things alone. 
You may be pulling down more than you can build up again, as 
Mr. Ribston said about these old pillars in the nave.” 

“ Mr. Ribston, my dear, is not a reflective man. He laments 
the destruction of anything old, not seeing that as we destroy an- 
tiquities so the years are making other antiquities. Mamma, box 
that girl’s ears ! she is laughing at me.” 

In the evening Will had to walk over to Balnacluith Place, in 
order to complete the arrangements with the count as to their 
starting on the Monday evening. Dove went with him; and 
when they got there the red sunset was flaring over the gloomy 
old house, and lighting up its windows with streaks of fire. Here 
and there, too, the tall bare trunks of one or two Scotch firs turn- 
ed scarlet against the faint gray-green of the east ; and the smooth 
river had broad splashes of crimson upon it, as it lay down there 
among the cool meadows, apparently motionless. 

Will’s reticence was unfortunate. They had scarcely begun to 
talk about their journey when Count Schonstein mentioned some- 
thing about Miss Brunei’s probable arrangements. 

“ Is Miss Brunei going with you ?” said Dove, her soft eyes 
lighting up with a faint surprise. 

“Yes. Didn’t you know?” replied Count Schonstein. “She 
is going to take a short holiday, and we hope to be honored by 
her presence at Schonstein.” 

Dove looked at Will ; he was examining a cartridge-pouch the 
count had brought in, and did not observe her inquiring glance. 

On their way home, he observed that she was very quiet. At 
first he thought she was subdued by the exceeding beauty of the 
twilight, which had here and there a yellow star lying lambent in 
the pale gray ; or that she was listening to the strong, luscious 
music of the nightingales, which abound in the valley of St. 
Mary-Kirby. Presently, however, he saw that she was wilfully . 
silent, and then he asked her what had displeased her. Her sense 
of wrong was of that tremulous and tender character which never 
reached the length of indignation ; and just now, when she want- 
ed to be very angry with him, she merely said, not in a very firm 
voice, 

“ I did not think you would deceive me, Will.” 

“Well, now,” he said, “you have been wasting all this beauti- 


GOOD-BYE. 


93 


ful time and annoying yourself by nursing your grievance silent- 
ly. Why didn’t you speak out at once, Dove, and say how I have 
deceived you ?” 

“ You said you were going abroad on business.” 

“ So I am.” 

“ Count Schonstein talks as if it were merely a pleasure ex- 
cursion.” 

“ So it is, to him.” 

“ Miss Brunei is going; with you.” 

“Well?” 

“You know quite well what I mean,” she said, petulantly. 
“ Why didn’t you tell me she was going with you ? Why did 
you conceal her going from me, as if there was no confidence be- 
tween us ?” 

“ My darling, I didn’t conceal her going from you. I didn’t 
tell you, because her going was no business of mine — because — 
because — ” 

“ Because you thought I would be jealous,” she said, with a 
little wilful color in her face. 

“ My darling,” said Will, gravely, “ you don’t consider what 
you’re saying. You wrong Annie Brunei quite as much as you 
wrong me and yourself. I don’t know what you’ve seen in her 
to warrant your supposing for an instant that — ” 

“Oh, Will, Will,” she cried, passionately, imploringly, “ don’t 
talk like that to me, or you’ll break my heart. Be friends with 
me, Will — dear Will — for if I’m not friends with you, what’s the 
use of living ? And I’m very sorry, Will ; and I didn’t mean it ; 
but all the same you should have told me, and I hate her /” 

“Now you are yourself, Dove,” he said, laughing. “And if 
Miss Brunei were here just now, you would fling your arms round 
her neck, and beg her to forgive you — ” 

“ I am never going to fling my arms round any person’s neck,” 
said Dove, “ except, perhaps, one person — that is, when the per- 
son deserves it — but I don’t think he ever will ; and as for Miss 
Brunei, I don’t know what business she has going abroad just 
now, and I don’t know why I should be so fond of her, although 
I hate her quite the same; and if she were here just now, as you 
say, I would tell her she ought to be ashamed of herself, cheating 
people into liking her.” 

“ You talk very prettily, Dove, but with a touch of incoherence. 


94 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


You ought to hear how Annie Brunei speaks of you ; and you 
ought to know what a kindly, tender, almost motherly interest 
she has in you.” 

“ Then you have seen her lately ?” said Dove, peeping up. 

“Yes — once or twice.” 

“ Does she know that we are to be married ?” asked Dove, look- 
ing down again. 

“ She knows that we are to be magghied. You foolish little 
darling, she saw it in your face the moment you met her; and 
you might have seen that she knew your secret.” 

“Actresses are witches, dear,” said Dove, gravely. “They 
know everything.” 

“ They are like witches in having suffered a good deal of per- 
secution at the hands of the ignorant and vulgar.” 

“Is that me, dear?” she asked, demurely. “No? Then I 
sha’n’t make fun any more. But if you’re really going away on 
Monday evening, Will, I want to bid you good-bye to-night — and 
not before all the people, you know ; and I’ll tell you all that 
you have got to do when you are away in thinking about me. 
There’s the moon getting up now behind Woodhill church; and 
every night at ten, Will, all the time you are away, I’ll go up to 
my room and look up at her, and you’ll do the same, darling, 
won’t you, just to please me ? And then I’ll know that my Will 
is thinking of me, and of St. Mary-Kirby ; and then you’ll know, 
darling, that I’m thinking of you, and if I could only send a kiss 
over to you, I’d do it. It won’t be much trouble to you, will it ? 
And if I’m lonely and miserable all the day, and if ‘ The Coulin,’ 
that I can’t help playing sometimes, makes me cry, I shall know 
that at ten you and I will be able to speak to each other that 
way—” 

“ I’ll do everything you ask me,” said Will to her, gently ; 
“ but — but don’t play ‘ The Coulin ’ any more, Dove.” 

“ Why, dear ? Ah ! you said it was the parting of death. 
Why did you say that ?” 


95 


“mit deinen schonen augen.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“mit deinen schonen augen.” 

Well, the first time Will fulfilled his promise to Dove was 
when he and Annie Brunei, Mrs. Christmas and the count (Her- 
mann and another of the count’s servants being in another car- 
riage), were rolling southward in the Dover express. Here and 
there he caught a glimpse of the moon, as it loomed suddenly 
and nearly over the top of some tall embankment ; but somehow 
his attention was so much taken up by the young girl opposite 
him, that Dove and her pretty request were in danger of being 
forgotten. 

Besides themselves, there was only a young Frenchman in the 
carriage — a grave, handsome young man, with melancholy black 
eyes and a carefully waxed mustache — who sat and covertly stared 
at Miss Brunei all the way. Perhaps he had seen her in the the- 
atre ; but, in any case, the beautiful, clear, dark artist-face of the 
young actress, with its large deep eyes, was quite sufficient to im- 
bue a susceptible young Frenchman with a vague sadness. Fort- 
unately, she dropped a glove ; and he, having picked it up and 
handed it to her with a grave and earnest politeness, leaned back 
in his seat, apparently thrilled with a secret happiness. 

The little party was in very good spirits; and Annie Brunei 
was especially bright and cheerful in her subdued, motherly way. 
Will suddenly found himself released from the irritating pleasure 
of having to humor the whims and coax the moods of an almost 
childish, petulant, pretty, and engaging girl, and talking instead 
with one who seemed to have a gift of beautifying and ennobling 
everything of which she spoke. Whatever she mentioned, in- 
deed, acquired a new importance in his eyes. He had never dis- 
covered so many things of which he would like to know more; 
he had never discovered that the things he did know, and the 
places he had seen, and the people he had met, were so full of 
life, and color, and dramatic interest. 

“ You two people talk like children going off for holidays,” 


96 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


said the count, disentangling himself from a series of discursive 
theatrical reminiscences offered him by Mrs. Christmas. 

“ So we are,” said Annie Brunei. 

The count introduced himself into the conversation ; and then 
the color and light seemed to Will to die out of it. The fact 
was, Count Schonstein was very much pleased to see that Miss 
Brunei took so kindly to his friend, as it rendered his own rela- 
tions with her more secure. He was very grateful to Will, also, 
for coming with him on this particular excursion ; knowing thor- 
oughly that he could never have induced Mrs. Christmas and Miss 
Brunei to go with him alone. These considerations were well 
enough in their way ; but at the same time he did not think it 
quite fair that Will should have all the pleasure of Miss Brunei’s 
society to himself. To be shut out from their conversation not 
only annoyed him, but made him feel old. As it was, Miss Bru- 
nei had a provoking habit of speaking to him as if he really were 
old, and only capable of affording her information. Worst of 
all, she sometimes inadvertently spoke of herself and Will as 
“ we and referred to the count as if he were some third party 
whom the two young people were good enough to patronize. 

“But then,” said the count to himself, “she has not seen 
Schonstein. Anerley is perhaps a more suitable companion for 
her ; but then she knows that he has no money, and that he has 
already mated himself. Once I have shown her Schonstein, I 
shall be able to dispense with his services : she will need no fur- 
ther inducement. And I never should have had the chance of 
showing her Schonstein but for him.” 

The night was so fine that they all remained on deck during 
the short passage over to Calais, walking up and down in the 
pale moonlight, that lay along the sea and touched the great 
black funnels, and the tall, smooth masts and yards. Looking 
down upon the deck beneath, Will had seen Hermann tenderly 
wrap up the fat little English girl who was to be Miss Brunei’s 
maid, and who was very melancholy indeed over parting with her 
mother, the count’s Kentish housekeeper; and then the stalwart 
keeper went forward to the bow and smoked cheap cigars fierce- 
ly for the rest of the voyage, thinking, probably, of the old com- 
panions he was going to see. 

The count was very quiet. He scarcely spoke. He sat down 
and wrapped himself up in his great Viennese travelling -coat* 


MIT DEINEN SCHONEN AUGENV 


97 


u 

allowing Will and Miss Brunei to promenade the deck. It was 
simply impossible for any one to become sick on such a night; 
but I do not think the count considered himself quite safe until 
he stood, tall, stout, and pompous, on Calais pier. 

“You are a good sailor, I suppose, Anerley ?” he said, grandly. 
“ I do think it ridiculous when a man can’t cross the Channel 
without becoming sick.” 

“A man would have to try very hard to be sick to-night. 
Hermann, you speak French, don’t you ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” said the tall keeper, as he bundled the trembling 
Polly up the gangway, and then began to look out for such arti- 
cles of his master’s luggage as had not been booked to Cologne. 

They were going the Rhine way, instead of via Paris and 
Strasburg; and so in due time they found themselves in the 
Brussels and Cologne train. We have at present nothing to do 
with their journey, or any incident of it, except that which befel 
two of the party that evening in a commonplace hotel overlook- 
ing the Rhine. 

“ Romance in a Rhine hotel !” exclaims the reader ; and I sub- 
mit to the implied indignation of the protest. 

Perhaps the first time you saw the Rhine you thought romance 
possible : perhaps you went round that way on your wedding 
trip ; but, in any case, the man who lingers about the noble river, 
and hides himself away from hasty tourists in some little village, 
and finds himself for the first time in the dream-land of the Ger- 
man ballad - singers, with a faint legendary mist still hanging 
about the brown ruins, and with a mystic glamour of witchcraft 
touching the green islands and the dark hills, may forget the 
guide-books and grow to love the Rhine. Then let him never 
afterward use the river as a highway. The eight or ten hours of 
perspiring Cockney — the odor of cooking — the exclamations and 
chatter — the parasol-and-smelling-bottle element which one can- 
not help associating with the one day’s journey up or down the 
Rhine, are a nightmare for after-years. One should never visit 
the Rhine twice, unless one has plenty of time, no companions, 
an intimacy with German songs, a liking for Riidesheimer, a stock 
of English cigars, and a thorough contempt for practical English 
energy. 

Yet it was the Rhine did all the mischief that night. Imagine 
for a moment the position. They had arrived in Cologne some- 

5 


98 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


where about five in the afternoon, and had driven to the Hotel de 
Hollande, which, as everybody knows, overlooks the river. Then 
they had dined. Then they had walked round to the Cathedral, 
where the count proudly contributed a single Friedrich towards 
helping King William in his efforts to complete the building. 
Then they had gone to one of the shops opposite, where the 
count, in purchasing some photographs, insisted on talking Ger- 
man to a man who knew English thoroughly. Then he had 
stalked into Jean Marie Farina’s place at the corner, and brought 
out one of Farina’s largest bottles for Miss Brunei ; he carrying 
it down to the hotel, the observant townspeople turning and star- 
ing at the big Englishman. By this time the sun had gone 
down, the twilight was growing darker, the faint lights of the 
city beginning to tell through the gray. 

There were gardens, said the porter, at the top of the hotel — 
beautiful gardens, looking down on the river; if the gentlemen 
wished to smoke, wine could be carried up. 

“ No,” said the count. “ I must commit the rudeness of going 
off to my room. I did not sleep, like you people, in the train.” 

So he bade them good-night and disappeared. 

“But we ought to go up and see the gardens,” said Annie 
Brunei. 

“ I think so,” said Will. “ Mrs. Christmas, will you take my 
arm? It is a long climb. And now that you have surrendered 
yourself to my care, may I recommend a luxury peculiar to the 
place ? One ought never to sit in Rhine gardens without spark- 
ling Muscatel, seltzer- water, and ice, to be drank out of frosted 
Champagne-glasses, in the open air, with flowers around us, and 
the river below — ” 

“You anticipate,” said Miss Brunei. “Perhaps the gardens 
are only a smoking-room, filled with people.” 

The “ gardens ” turned out to be a long and spacious balcony, 
not projecting from the building, but formed out of the upper 
floor. There were tables and chairs about; and a raised seat 
which ran along the entire front. The pillars supporting the 
roof were wound round with trailing evergreens, the tendrils and 
leaves of which scarcely stirred in the cool night air ; finally, the 
place was quite empty. 

Annie Brunei stepped over to the front of the balcony and 
looked down ; then a little cry of surprise and delight escaped her. 


“ MIT DEINEN SCHONEN AUGEN.” 


99 


“ Come,” she said to Mrs. Christmas — “ come over here ; it is 
the most beautiful thing I have ever seen !” 

Beautiful enough it was — far too beautiful to be put down 
here in words. The moon had arisen by this time — the yellow 
moon of the Rhine — and it had come up and over the vague 
brown shadows of Deutz until it hung above the river. Where 
it touched the water there was a broad lane of broken, rippling 
silver; but all the rest of the wide and silent stream was of a 
dull olive hue, on which (looking from this great height) you 
saw the sharp black hulls of the boats. Then far along the op- 
posite bank, and across the bridges, and down on the quays un- 
derneath were glittering beads of orange fire ; and on the river 
there were other lights — moving crimson and green spots which 
marked the lazy barges and the steamers out there. When one 
of the boats came slowly up, the olive -green plain was cleft in 
two, and you saw waving lines of silver widening out to the bank 
on either side ; then the throb of the paddle and the roar of the 
steam ceased; a green lamp was run up to the mast-head, to beam 
there like a fire-fly ; the olive river grew smooth and silent again ; 
and the perfect, breathless peace of the night was unbroken. A 
clear, transparent night, without darkness; and yet these points 
of orange, and green, and scarlet burned sharply ; and the soft 
moonlight on the river shone whiter than phosphorus. So still a 
night, too, that the voices on the quays floated up to this high 
balcony — vague, echo-like, undistinguishable. 

Annie Brunei was too much impressed by the singular loveli- 
ness of the night and of the picture before her to say anything. 
She sat up on the raised bench ; and looking out from between 
the pillars, Will could see her figure, framed, as it were, by the 
surrounding leaves. Against the clear dark sky her head was 
softly defined, and her face caught a pale tinge of the moonlight 
as she sat quite still and seemed to listen. 

He forgot all about the iced wine and his cigar. He forgot 
even Mrs. Christmas, who sat in the shadow of one of the pillars, 
and also looked down on the broad panorama before her. 

Then Miss Brunei began to talk to him ; and it seemed to him 
that her voice was unusually low, and sad, and tender. It may 
have been the melancholy of the place — for all very beautiful 
things haunt us and torture us with a vague, strange longing— or 
it may be that some old recollections had been awakened within 


L.ofC. 


100 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


her ; but she spoke to him with a frank, close, touching confi- 
dence, such as he had never seen her exhibit to any one. Nor 
was he aware of the manner in which he reciprocated these con- 
fidences ; nor of the dangerous simplicity of many things he said 
to her — suggestions which she was too much preoccupied to no- 
tice. But even in such rare moments as these, when we seem to 
throw off the cold attitudinizing of life and speak direct to each 
other, heart to heart, a double mental process is possible, and we 
may be unconsciously shaping our wishes in accordance with those 
too exalted sentiments born of incautious speech. And Will went 
on in this fashion. The past was past ; let no harm be said of it ; 
and yet it had been unsatisfactory to him. There had been no 
generous warmth in it, no passionate glow ; only the vague com- 
monplaces of pleasure, which left no throb of regret behind them. 
And now he felt within him a capacity, a desire, for a fuller and 
richer life — a new, fresh, hopeful life, with undreamed-of emotions 
and sensations. Why should he not leave England forever ? What 
was England to him ? With only one companion, who had aspi- 
rations like his own, who could receive his confidences, who might 
love with a passion strong as that he knew lay latent in his own 
heart, who had these divine, exalted sympathies — 

He was looking up at the beautiful face of the young girl, cold 
and clear-cut like marble, in the moonlight ; and he was not aware 
that he had been thinking of her. All at once that horrible con- 
sciousness flashed in upon him like a bolt of consuming fire ; his 
heart gave one big throb, and he almost staggered back as he said 
to himself, with remorse, and horror, and shame, 

“ Oh God ! I love this woman with my whole soul ; and what 
shall I say to my poor Dove ?” 

She sat up there, pure and calm, like some glorified saint, and 
saw nothing of the hell of contending emotions which raged be- 
low in her companion’s breast. Unconscious of it all, she sat 
and dreamed the dreams of a happy and contented soul. As 
for him, he was overwhelmed with shame, and pity, and despair. 
And as he thought of Dove, and St. Mary -Kirby, the dull, so- 
norous striking of some great bell suddenly reminded him of his 
promise. 

He hastily pulled out his watch — half -past ten, English time. 
She, down in the quiet Kentish vale, had remembered his promise 
(indeed, had she not dreamed of it all day ?), had gone to her win- 


THE OUTCAST. 


101 


dow, and tenderly thought of her lover, and with happy tears in 
her eyes had sent him many a kindly message across the sea ; he 
— what his thoughts had been at the same moment he scarcely 
dared confess to his awakened self. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

THE OUTCAST. 

“ Quite true, my dear,” said Mr. Anerley, gently. “ If I had 
risen at six, gone and dipped myself in the river, and then taken 
a walk, I should have been in a sufficiently self-satisfied and virt- 
uous frame of mind to have accompanied you to church. But I 
try to avoid carnal pride. Indeed, I don’t know how Satan man- 
aged to develop so much intolerable vanity, unless he was in the 
habit of rising at a prodigiously early hour and taking a cold 
bath.” 

“ Oh, papa, how dare you say such a thing ?” said a soft voice 
just beside him ; and he turned to the open breakfast-room win- 
dow to see Dove’s pretty face, under a bright little summer-bon- 
net, looking in at him reproachfully. 

“ Come, get away to church, both of you,” he said. “ There 
goes the cracked bell.” 

So Mrs. Anerley and Dove went alone to church ; the former 
very silent and sad. The tender little woman could do nothing 
for this husband of hers — nothing but pray for him, in an inaudi- 
ble way, during those moments of solemn silence which occur be- 
tween divisions of the service. 

A quarter of an hour afterward Mr. Anerley rose, and also 
walked along to the little gray building. All the people by this 
time were inside, and as he entered the church-yard the choir was 
singing. He sat down on one of the grave -stones that were 
placed among the long, green, rank grass ; and, having pulled his 
straw hat over his forehead, to shelter his eyes and face from the 
strong sunlight, he listened, in a dreamy way, to the sweet sing- 
ing of the children and the solemn and soft intoning of the 
organ. 

It was his favorite method of going to church. 


102 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“You get all the emotional exaltation of the service,” he used 
to say, “ without having your intellect ruffled. And when the 
children have done their singing, instead of listening to a feeble 
sermon, you sit out in the clear sunlight and look down on the 
quiet valley, and the river, and the trees.” 

So he sat, and listened, and dreamed, while the softened music 
played upon his fancies, and produced a moving panorama of 
pious scenes — of the old Jew-life, the early Christian wanderings, 
the mediaeval mysteries, and superstitions, and heroisms. 

“ How fortunate religion has been,” he thought, “ to secure the 
exclusive aid of music and architecture ! Philosophy and science 
have had to fight their way single-handed; but she has come 
armed with weapons of emotional coercion to overawe and con- 
vince the intellectually unimpressionable. In a great cathedral, 
with slow, sonorous chanting reverberating through the long stone 
galleries, and tapers lighted in the mysterious twilight, every man 
thinks it is religion, not art, which almost forces him down upon 
his knees.” 

Here the music ceased abruptly, and presently there was a con- 
fused murmur of syllables — the clergyman either preaching or 
reading. 

“ Sermons are like Scotch bagpipes,” said Mr. Anerley to him- 
self, as he rose and left the church-yard to wander down to the 
river- side. “They sound very well when one doesn’t hear 
them.” 

That very day there was a conspiracy formed against the car- 
nal peace of mind of this aimlessly speculating philosopher. Mr. 
Bexley’s sermon had been specially touching to the few ladies 
who attended the little church ; and the tender, conjugal soul of 
Mrs. Anerley was grieved beyond measure as she thought of the 
outcast whom she had left behind. Rhetorical threats of damna- 
tion passed lightly over her ; indeed, you cannot easily persuade 
a woman that the lover of her youth has any cause to fear eternal 
punishment; but a far less sensitive woman than Mrs. Anerley 
might well have been saddened by that incomprehensible barrier 
which existed between her and her husband. 

“ And it is only on this one point,” she thought to herself, bit- 
terly. “ Was there ever such a husband as he is — so forbearing, 
and kind, and generous? Was there ever such a father as he has 
shown himself to be, both to Will and to this poor Dove? And 


THE OUTCAST. 


103 


yet they talk of him as if he were a great sinner ; and I know 
that Mrs. Bexley said she feared he was among the lost.” 

Be sure Mrs. Bexley did not gain in Mrs. Anerley’s esteem by 
that unhappy conjecture. From the moment of its utterance, 
the two women, though they outwardly met with cold courtesy, 
were sworn enemies ; and a feud which owed its origin to the 
question of the eternal destiny of a human soul condescended to 
exhibit itself in a bitter rivalry as to which of the two disputants 
should be able to wear the most stylish bonnet. Was it the 
righteousness of her cause, or her husband’s longer purse, which 
generally gave Mrs. Anerley the victory over the chagrined and 
mortified wife of the pastor? 

But with Mr. Bexley Mrs. Anerley continued on the most 
friendly terms ; and on this day, so anxious was she, poor soul, 
to see her husband united to her in the bonds of faith, that she 
talked to Mr. Bexley for a few minutes, and begged him to call 
round in the evening and try the effect of spiritual counsel on 
this sheep who had wandered from the fold. 

Mr. Bexley was precisely the man to undertake such a responsi- 
bility with gladness — nay, with eagerness. Many a time had he 
dined at Mr. Anerley’s house; but being a gentleman as well as a 
clergyman, he did not seek to take advantage of his position, and 
turn the kindly after-dinner talk of the household into a profes- 
sional seance. But when he was appealed to by the wife of the 
mentally sick man he responded joyously. He was a very shy 
and nervously sensitive man — as you might have seen by his fine, 
lank, yellow hair, the singular purity of his complexion, the weak- 
ness of his eyes, and a certain spasmodic affection of the corner 
of his lips ; but he had no fear of ridicule when he was on his 
Master’s service. Mr. Anerley and he, indeed, were great friends ; 
and the former, though he used to laugh at the clergyman’s igno- 
rance of guns and rods, and at his almost childish optimism, re- 
spected him as one honest man respects another. The rational- 
ist looked upon the supernaturalisms of this neighbor of his with 
much curiosity, some wonder, and a little admiration. Yet he 
never could quite account for these phenomena. He could not 
understand, for instance, why one of the most subtle and dispas- 
sionate minds of our day should sadly address an old friend as 
from the other side of the grave, simply because the latter was 
removed from him by a few (to Mr. Anerley) unimportant and 


104 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


merely technical doctrinal points. Mr. Bexley was a constant 
puzzle to him. Indeed, the firmest facts in Mr. Bexley’s theory 
of life were what a sensationalist would at once put down as de- 
lusions or mere hypotheses. He was full of the most exalted 
ideas of duty, of moral responsibility, of the value of fine shades 
of opinion and psychical experience. He worshipped Dr. New- 
man, whose verses he regarded as a new light thrown upon the 
history of the soul. He had a passionate admiration for the 
Spectator; and shed, at least, a good deal of political enlighten- 
ment upon his parish by insisting on the farmers around reading 
each number as it was sent down from London. Mr. Bexley 
ought never to have been in the service of a State church. He 
had the “ prophetic ” instinct. Proselytism came as natural to 
him as the act of walking. He abhorred and detested leaving 
things alone, and letting them right themselves. This Kentish 
Jonah found a Nineveh wherever he went; he was never afraid 
to attack it single-handed ; and, most of all, he raised his voice 
against the materialists and sensationalists — the destroyers of the 
beautiful idealisms of the soul. 

When one’s wife and her favorite clergyman enter into league 
against one’s convictions, the chances are that the convictions will 
suffer. Such combinations are unfair. There are some men, for 
example, who would refuse to be attended by a doctor who was 
on very friendly terms with an undertaker ; they fear the chance 
of collusion. 

It was almost dusk when Mr. Bexley went round to Chestnut 
Bank, and then he found Mr. Anerley seated outside, on a carved 
oaken bench, under some lime-trees fronting the lawn. He was 
alone, and on the rude table before him were some decanters and 
bottles, one or two fruit-plates, and a box of cigars. 

“ Oh, good-evening, Mr. Bexley,” said the lost one. “ Will you 
have a cigar?” 

“ Thank you.” 

“Sit down. That’s claret next you, and there’s still some 
sparkling Burgundy in the bottle. The children are very fond of 
it — I suppose because it looks like currant-jelly in hysterics.” 

Cigars and claret don’t seem quite the avenue by which to ap- 
proach an inquiry into the condition of a man’s soul; but Mr. 
Bexley was too excited to heed what he did. He had the prose- 
lytizing ecstasy upon him. He was like one of the old Crusaders 


THE OUTCAST. 


105 


about to ride up to tbe gate of a godless Saracen city and demand 
its surrender. Did not Great-heart, when about to engage with 
the giant, refresh himself with the wine which Christiana carried ? 

“You were not at church this morning,” he said, carelessly. 

But his assumed carelessness was too evident *, his forte was 
not diplomacy. 

“ Well, no,” said Mr. Anerley, quietly ; he did not take the 
trouble to reflect on the object of the question, for he had been 
considering graver matters when Mr. Bexley arrived. 

“ You have not been to church for a long time,” continued 
the yellow-haired, soft-voiced preacher, insidiously, but nervously. 
“Indeed, you don’t seem to think church-going of any impor- 
tance.” 

Mr. Anerley made no answer. Then the other, driven out of 
the diplomatic method of approach into his natural manner, im- 
mediately said, 

“ Mr. Anerley, do you never think that it is a man’s duty to 
think about things which are not of this world ? Do you expect 
always to be satisfied with worldly good? You and I have had 
long conversations together; and I have found you so reasona- 
ble, so unprejudiced, so free to conviction, that I am amazed you 
do not recognize the necessity of thinking of something beyond 
this life that we lead just now.” 

“ Cannot people think of these things outside a church, Mr. 
Bexley ?” he said ; but his face was quite grave, if not sad. “ As 
you came into the garden just now, I was perplexing myself with 
that very question. I was sitting wondering if I should die and 
become nothing, without having discovered how it was I came to 
live. It seems so singular that one should pass out of conscious- 
ness into the inorganic earth without having discovered what the 
earth is, and without having the least notion of how he himself 
came to be. Geology only presents you with a notion of tre- 
mendous time and change — it gives no clue to the beginning. 
And if there was no beginning, how is it that my brief conscious- 
ness only flickers up for a short time, and dies down again into 
darkness and night ? How did there come to be a beginning to 
my consciousness?” 

Mr. Bexley was astounded and grieved. He was accustomed, 
even in that little parish, to find people who had painful doubts 
about the Mosaic record of creation ; who seemed perplexed 

5 * 


106 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


about the sun, moon, and stars having all been created in order 
to light up the earth ; and who accepted with joy and gladness 
any possible theory of reconciliation which gave them a more 
rational view of the world and their belief in the Bible at the 
same time. But he had not met a man who had passed to one 
side, as quite unworthy of attention, all theologic solutions of the 
difficulty whatever. 

The very novelty of the obstacle, however, only excited his 
evangelical fervor. He avowed his object in having visited 
Chestnut Bank that evening (without, however, revealing at 
whose suggestion he had undertaken the task), and boldly en- 
deavored to grapple with the demon of unbelief which had pos- 
session of his friend’s mind. He insisted on the fallibility of 
human reason. He pointed out that, without religion, morality 
was unable to make its way among the uneducated. He demon- 
strated that every age had its own proper religion, and that an 
age without a religion was on the brink of suicide. All these 
things, and many more, he urged with much eloquence and un- 
doubted sincerity, and at the end he was surprised to learn that 
his auditor quite coincided with everything he had uttered. 

“ I know,” he said, “ that the present attitude of the majority 
of intellectual men in this country is a dangerous and impossible 
one. Men cannot live in an atmosphere of criticism. What we 
want just now is a new gospel fitted for the times ; we want a 
crusade of some sort — a powerful belief that will develop all sorts 
of sympathetic emotions and idealisms, instead of leaving one a 
prey to cold analysis. But we haven’t got it; and those who 
have gone beyond this tidal flow of the last great religious flood 
find themselves stranded on dry land, without a blade of grass or 
a drop of water in sight. Give me a gospel, and I’ll take it with 
pleasure. Whether it be a new series of religious symbolisms, or 
a splendid system of ethics, demanding action, or even a belief in 
humanity as a supreme and beautiful power — anything that can 
convince me and compel me to admire, I will take. But I don’t 
want to deal in old symbols, and old beliefs, and old theories, that 
fit me no more than the monkey-jacket in which my mother sent 
me to school.” 

“You say you have got beyond us, and yet you acknowledge 
that you have been disappointed,” urged Mr. Bexley. “ Why not 
return to the Church, if only for personal satisfaction ? You can- 


THE OUTCAST. 


107 


not be happy in your present position ; you must be tormented 
by the most fearful doubts and anticipations. Are you not af- 
flicted by moments of utter darkness, in which you long for the 
kindly hand of some spiritual authority to assist you and comfort 
you ? In such perilous moments I believe I should go mad if I 
were to assure myself, for a single passing instant, that I was 
alone and unaided; that I had been teaching lies and supersti- 
tions all my life ; that the world was a big machine, and we the 
accidental dust thrown out by its great chemic motions ; that all 
the aspirations of our soul, and the voice of conscience, and the 
standards of right at which we aim, were all delusions and mock- 
eries. I would not have life on such terms. I should know that 
I only existed through the brute ignorance and superstition of 
my stronger-made fellow-men not permitting them to kill me and 
all such as I, and then to seize our means of living. I should 
look forward to the time when these superstitions should be 
cleared away, and the world become a general scramble, handed 
over to those who had the longest claws and the fiercest teeth.” 

“ Then,” said Mr. Anerley, with a smile, “ if the first glimpse 
of change is likely to derange your intellect in that fashion, and 
force you to so many absurd conclusions, you are better where 
you are. And about those moments of spiritual darkness, and 
torture, and longing of which you speak — I do not understand 
what they are. I am never visited by them. I thank God I 
have a tolerable digestion.” 

“ Digestion !” repeated the other, bitterly. “ It all comes to 
that. Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow ye die ; and the 
only resurrection you hope for is to breathe the sunlight again as 
a buttercup or a dandelion. What is it, may I ask, entices you 
to remain in the position you occupy — that of being an honest 
man, credited with constant generous actions, kindly to your in- 
feriors, and what not ? Why should you be moral at all ? Why 
should you not, if it pleased you, go into any depths of dissipa- 
tion and debauchery ? There is nothing to restrain you.” 

“ Pardon me, there is. If it were worth the trouble, I dare 
say I could convince you that my code of morality is not only 
more comprehensive and more strict than yours, but that it rests 
on more explicable and more permanent foundations. But it is 
not worth the trouble to convince a single man at a time in which 
we are waiting for some great and general renovation.” 


108 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


So they went on, in the faint darkness, under the black branch- 
es and the gray sky. Mr. Bexley was not going to relinquish 
hope at the very outset; and he proceeded from point to point, 
adducing all the considerations which made it very much more 
advantageous to be orthodox than to be not orthodox. He might 
have persuaded a man who was hovering between the two states 
to go over to the bosom of the Church ; but his entreaties, and 
representations, and arguments had little effect upon a man who 
was separated from him by the great chasm of a dawning era. 

“ Perhaps I may lament my present negative, critical attitude,” 
said Mr. Anerley, quite frankly, “ but I prefer it to yours. The 
successive tides of faith which pass over the world leave little cir- 
cling eddies, and I have been caught in one of these ; I cannot 
tell in what direction the next great movement will be — I only 
know I shall not see it.” 

The end of it was, just then, that Mr. Anerley begged of his 
neighbor and counsellor to go in-doors and have some supper with 
them. Mr. Bexley, a little disheartened, but still confident in his 
spiritual power to overcome, some time or other, the strong re- 
sistance of the unconverted man’s heart, agreed ; and so they both 
went into the house and entered the dining-room, where the sup- 
per-table had just been prepared. Mrs. Anerley started up, with 
her face red as fire, when she saw her husband and the clergyman 
enter together ; and this obvious departure from her usual self-pos- 
sessed and easy manner at once struck Mr. Anerley as being very 
peculiar. Nay, the poor little woman, feeling herself very guilty 
— harboring a secret notion that she had tried to entrap her gen- 
erous and open-minded husband — was more than ordinarily at- 
tentive and courteous to him. She was far more civil, and oblig- 
ing, and formal towards him than towards her stranger-guest ; and 
she never by any chance lifted her eyes to his. 

Mr. Anerley saw it all, understood it all, and thought of it with 
an inward, pitying smile that was scarcely visible upon his lips. 
“ There is a creature,” he said to himself, “ who might convert 
any man to anything, if she had the least logical chance on her 
side.” 

He saw also, or perhaps feared, that this embarrassment and 
restraint would only make her uncomfortable for the evening ; and 
so, in his kindly way, he called Dove to him. The young girl 
went over to him, and he put his arm round her waist, and said, 


THE OUTCAST. 


109 


“ Do you see that small woman over there, who looks so guilty? 
She is guilty ; and that gentleman there, whom you have been 
accustomed to regard as the very pattern of all the virtues in the 
parish, is her accomplice.” 

Mrs. Anerley started again, and glanced in a nervous way tow- 
ards Mr. Bexley. Even her desire for her husband’s salvation 
was lost in the inward vow that never, never again would she seek 
for aid out of the domestic circle. 

“ Their secret having been found out, Dove, it remains to award 
them their punishment. In my royal clemency, however, I leave 
the sentence in your hands.” 

“ What have they been doing, papa ?” 

“Ask them. Call upon the female prisoner to stand forward 
and say why sentence should not be pronounced against her.” 

“ It is not a subject for merriment, Hubert,” said his wife, 
blushing hotly, “ and if I did ask Mr. Bexley to speak to you as a 
friend — ” 

“You hear, Dove, she confesses to the conspiracy, and also 
criminates her fellow-prisoner. If I had a black cowl, and some 
sherry at twelve shillings a dozen, I should sentence them to drink 
half a bottle each, having first bidden them a final and affection- 
ate farewell.” 

“ As it is, papa,” said Dove, maliciously, “ you had better give 
them some of that white Italian wine you are so fond of ; and if 
they survive — ” 

“ Mamma, order this girl to bed !” 

“ That is what poor papa says whenever any one beats him in 
an argument, or says his wine isn’t good,” said Dove to Mr. 
Bexley. 

But she went, nevertheless. For it was nearly ten o’clock, and 
although there was only a faint sickle of the moon now visible, 
that was still big enough to bear the thin thread of thought which 
so subtly connected her and her lover. She took out of her bos- 
om a letter which she had received that morning, and she kissed 
it and held it in her hand, and said, looking up to the pale star- 
light and the clear white crescent, 

“ Moon, moon, will you tell him that I’ve got his letter, and 
that I read it twenty times — a hundred times over, and yet he 
doesn’t say a word about coming home ? Will you ask him 
when he is coming back to rne — and tell him to come quick, 


110 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


quick, for the days are getting wearier and wearier? Couldn’t 
you come down for a little minute, and whisper to me, and tell 
me what he has been doing all this time, and what he is looking 
like, and what he is saying to you just now ? Couldn’t you give 
me a little glimpse of him, instead of keeping him to yourself, 
and staring down as if you didn’t see anything at all ? And you 
might as well tell him that I shall begin and hate Miss Brunei if 
he doesn’t come back soon ; and I’ll play ‘ The Coulin ’ all day to 
myself when I’m alone, and be as miserable and wretched as ever 
I please. But here’s a kiss for him, anyway : and you wouldn’t 
be so cruel as not to give him that !” 

And Dove, having completed her orisons, went down -stairs, 
with a smile on her sweet face — perhaps not thinking that the 
nightly staring at the moon, as the reader may perhaps suspect, 
had somewhat affected her brain. And she found Mr. Bexley 
more brilliant and eloquent than ever in his exposition of certain 
spiritual experiences; and she was in such a mood of half-hys- 
teric delight and happiness that she could have put her arm round 
Mr. Anerley’s neck, and begged him, for her sake, to be a little, 
just a little, more orthodox. As it was, he had promised to go 
inside the church next Sunday ; and his wife was very happy. 


CHAPTER XY. 

SCHON-ROHTRAUT. 

Do you know the ballad of “ Schon - Rohtraut ” — the king’s 
daughter who would neither spin nor sew, but who fished, and 
hunted, and rode on horseback through the woods, with her fa- 
ther’s page for her only companion? Was there any wonder 
that the youth grew sad, and inwardly cried to himself, 

“ 0 dass ich doch ein Konigssohn war’, 

Rohtraut, Schon-Rohtraut lieb’ ich so sehr. 

Schweig’ stille, mein Herz !” 

One day they rested themselves under a great oak, and the 
merry Schon-Rohtraut laughed aloud at her woe-stricken page, 
and cried, 


SCHON-ROHTRAUT. 


Ill 


“Why do yon look at me so longingly? If you have the 
heart to do it, come and kiss me, then !” 

Whereupon the lad, with a terrible inward tremor, probably, 
went up and kissed Schon-Rohtraut’s laughing lips. And they 
two rode quite silently home ; but the page joyously said to him- 
self, “ I do not care now whether she were to be made empress 
to-day ; for all the leaves in the forest know that I have kissed 
Schon-Rohtraut’s mouth.” 

There are many of us whose chief consolation it is to know 
that we have kissed Schon-Rohtraut’s mouth. The middle-aged 
man, getting a trifle gray above the ears, sits by the fire of a win- 
ter evening, and thinks of his own particular Schon-Rohtraut. 

“I did not marry her; but I loved her in the long -bygone 
time, and that is enough for me. I had my ‘ liberal education.’ 
If I had married her, perhaps I should not be loving her now ; 
and all my tender memories of her, and of that pleasant time, 
would have disappeared. But now no one can dispossess me of 
the triumphant consciousness that it was my good fortune to 
have kissed Schon-Rohtraut’s mouth.” 

There is much sympathy abroad upon this matter; and I 
think we men never get nearer to each other than when we talk, 
after our wives have gone up-stairs to bed, of our lost loves. 

This was partly what Will Anerley said to himself as the little 
party sat under the white awning of the Konig Wilhelm , and 
slowly steamed up the yellow -green waters of the Rhine. Not 
without a tremor of conscience he said it ; for he had a vague 
impression that he had been wantonly cruel to Dove. In the 
first moments of remorse after awaking to a sense of his present 
position, he had said, 

“There remains but one thing to be done: I will at once re- 
turn to England, and see Annie Brunei no more.” 

But a man approaching thirty has taught himself to believe 
that he has great fortitude, especially where the tenderer emotions 
are concerned,; and his next reflection was, 

“ My sudden departure will only be a revelation to her, and 
happily she knows nothing about it. Besides, have I not suf- 
ficient strength of mind to spend a few days in the pleasant so- 
ciety of this young girl without committing myself ? The mis- 
chief is done, and I must suffer for my carelessness ; but — ” 

But he would go on to Schonstein all the same, whither the 


112 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


two ladies had also consented to go. He did not deceive himself 
when he submitted to his own conscience this theory. He knew 
there was no danger of his disturbing Miss Brunei’s peace of 
mind, and he knew that Dove would have no further injustice 
done her. It was he who was to suffer. His thoughtlessness 
had permitted the growth of a hopeless passion : it would never 
be known to her who had inspired it, nor to her whom it had dis- 
possessed. He only should carry about with him the scourge; 
and he was not without a hope that time and travel would for 
once accommodate themselves to an absurd superstition, and cure 
him of an unfortunate love. 

For the rest, he was almost glad that he had mentally kissed 
Schon - Rohtraut’s mouth. The consciousness of this passionate 
and hopeless attachment was in itself a pure and elevated feeling 
— a maiden delight which had no earthly element mixed with it. 
It was so different from the kindly, affectionate interest he took 
in Dove — so different from that familiar liking which made him 
think nothing of kissing the young girl in an easy, fraternal way. 
To think of kissing Annie Brunei! The page could only look 
wonderingly and longingly at his beautiful mistress, at her pretty 
lips and nut-white teeth, and say, “ Schweig’ stille, mein Herz !” 

Quite assured of his own strength of will, he did not seek for a 
moment to withdraw himself from her, or raise any subtle barrier 
between them. In fact, he mockingly explained to himself that, 
as compensation for the pain which he would afterward have to 
suffer, he would now sup to the full the delicious enjoyment of 
her society. He would study as much as he chose the fine ar- 
tistic head, the beautiful, warm, Italian color of her face, and her 
charming figure ; and he would gaze his fill into the deep - gray 
eyes, which were always brightened up by an anticipatory kindli- 
ness when he approached. He remarked, however, that he had 
never seen them intensified by that passionate glow which he had 
observed on the stage — the emotional earnestness which belonged 
to what she called her “ real life there were in the eyes merely 
a pleased satisfaction and good-nature. 

“ When shall we get away from the Rhine ?’* she asked, as they 
were sailing past the black Loreleiberg. 

“ To-night,” said the count, “ we shall stop at Mayence, and go 
on by rail to Freiburg to-morrow. Then we shall be away from 
the line of the tourists.” 


6CH0N-R0HTRAUT. 


113 


This was an extraordinary piece of generosity and concession 
on the part of Count Schon stein ; for there was scarcely any- 
thing he loved more dearly' cin earth than to linger about the 
well-known routes, and figure as a German count before the 
Cockney tourists who crowded the railway -stations and tables- 
d'hote. 

“ I am so glad !” said Miss “'Brunei. “ I cannot bear to be 
among those people. I feel as if I were a parlor-maid sitting in 
a carriage with her master and mistress, and fancying that she is 
being stared at for her impertinence by every passer-by. Don’t 
tell me it is absurd, Mr. Anerley ; for I know it is absurd. But 
I cannot help feeling so all the same. When anybody stares at 
me, I say to myself, ‘ Well, perhaps you’ve paid five shillings to 
stare at me in the theatre, and you think, of course, you have the 
same right here.’ ” 

Will was very vexed to hear her speak so — partly because he 
knew that no reasoning would cure her of this cruel impression, 
and partly because he knew that she had some ground for speak- 
ing as she did. Continually, along that insufferably Cockney 
route he had seen her stared at and ogled by lank youths from 
Oxford Street or Mincing Lane, who had got a holiday from 
counter or desk, and had hoisted a good deal of bunting to cele- 
brate the occasion — bright green ties, striped collars, handker- 
chiefs marked with Adelina Patti’s portrait, white sun hats with 
scarlet bands, yellow dust-coats and dog-skin gloves. In the in- 
tervals between their descents to the cabin, where they drank 
cognac in preference to “ that beastly sour wine,” they would sit 
at a little distance, suck fiercely at their cheap cigars, and stare 
at the young actress as they were accustomed to stare at the 
baboons in the Zoological Gardens, or at the royal family, or at 
their favorite bar-maid. Then would follow confidential commu- 
nications to Tom or ’Arry that she was very like “ Miss Trebelli,” 
and another head or tails for another “ go ” of brandy. 

“ If these creatures were to get to heaven,” said Anerley to 
the count, in a moment of jealous spleen, “ they would ask their 
nearest way to the Holborn Casino.” 

It was partly this semi -Bohemian feeling which drew the 
young artiste towards Count Schonstein and Will Anerley, and 
allowed her to relish the society of people “ out of the profes- 
sion.” Of the personal history of the count she had got to 


114 


IN SILK 'Xl^I.RE. 

V * 

know something ; and while she tojerated his self-sufficiency, and 
admired his apparent good -nature and even temper, she almost 
sympathized with him in his ^Stifude towards society. It was 
the same people whom she had been taught to distrust who 
were in league against the poor count. They would not permit 
him to mix in their society, .b^ause, like herself, he was an ad- 
venturer, a person whose position was not secured to him by an 
ancient royal grant. Will she looked upon in another fashion. 

“You have been so much abroad, and mixed with so many 
people, that you seem not to belong to England. There is noth- 
ing English about you — nothing of vanity, and self-importance, 
and suspicion of outsiders.” 

But against this praise, as against the whole tone of her mind 
on the subject, he had uttered many a serious protest. 

“You blame us English with the impertinences of a few boys 
out for a holiday. You have heard stories of actors and actress- 
es having received injuries from persons out of the profession, 
and you necessarily think there must be a mutual antagonism 
between the classes.” 

“ I don’t think anything about it,” she used to say ; “ I only 
know what my impression is, however it has been taught me. 
And I know that there is no sympathy between me and the peo- 
ple whom I try to amuse, and that they despise me and my call- 
ing. I don’t blame them for it ; but how can you expect me to 
like them ? I don’t say they are narrow-minded, or prejudiced ; 
but I know that an English lady would not sit down to dinner 
with an actress ; that an English mother would think her son lost 
if he married an actress; and that a girl in good society who 
marries an actor is thought to have done something equivalent 
to running away with her father’s footman.” 

These were the bitter precepts which the Marchioness of 
Knottingley had left with her daughter ; and they had been in- 
stilled into the girl at a time when beliefs become part of our 
flesh and blood. 

“ There are ignorant and ill - educated women who think so,” 
said Will, calmly ; “ but you do an injustice to women of educa- 
tion, and good taste, and intelligent sympathies, when you sup- 
pose that every one — ” 

“Let us take your own mother,” said Annie Brunei, hastily. 
“Would she be anxious, supposing she knew me, to introduce 


SCHON-ROHTRAUT. 


115 


me to the rest of her acquaintances? Would she ask me to 
visit her? Would she be willing that I should be a companion 
to that pretty little Dove ?” 

“ I think I have answered all these questions before,” said Will. 
“ I tell you I can’t answer for all the women in England ; but for 
those of them whom I respect I can answer, and my mother is 
one of them. Has she not already allowed Dove to make your 
acquaintance ?” 

“ Because I was a curiosity, and she was allowed to come and 
look at me in my cage,” said the actress, with that cruel smile on 
her lips. 

“ Miss Brunei,” said Will, simply and frankly, “ you are exhib- 
iting far more prejudice than you will find in the women you 
speak about. And I don’t know whether you will forgive my 
saying that it seems a pity one of your years should already pos- 
sess such suspicions and opinions of other people — ” 

Wherewith she looked him straight in the face, with a clear, 
searching glance of those big and honest eyes of hers, which 
would have made a less disinterested advocate falter. 

“Are you telling me what you believe to be true?” she said. 

“ Could I have any object in deceiving you ?” 

“You believe that your mother, a carefully pious and correct 
lady, who has lived all her life in the country, would dare to avow 
that she knew an actress ?” 

“ She would be proud to avow it.” 

“ Would she take me to church with her, and give me a seat 
in her pew, before all her neighbors ?” 

“ Certainly she would.” 

“And what would they think?” 

“Perhaps the parish clerk’s wife,” said Will, with a mental 
glance at Mrs. Bexley, “ and the vet’s wife, and a few women of 
similar extraction or education, might be shocked ; but the edu- 
cated and intelligent of them would only be envious of my moth- 
er. Wherever you go, you will find people who believe in witches, 
and the eternal damnation of unconverted niggers, and the divine 
right of the nearest squire ; but you don’t suppose that we are all 
partial idiots ? And even these people, if you went into St. Mary- 
Kirby Church, would only have to look at you — ” 

“ You said something like that to me before,” she replied, with 
the same nervous haste to exhibit every objection — was it that 


116 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


she the more wished them to be explained away? — “and I told 
you I did not think much of the charity that was only extended 
to me personally because my face was not old and haggard. Sup- 
pose that I were old and painted, and — ” 

“ But if you were old, you would not be painted.” 

“I might.” 

“ In that case, all the women would have some ground to be 
suspicious of you; and many of them would be angry because 
you were allowed a luxury denied them by their husbands. 
Really, Miss Brunei, you do the ‘ outsiders ’ an injustice,” he add- 
ed, warming to his work. “ Stupid people and uneducated peo- 
ple do not care for nice discriminations. They have always de- 
cided opinions. They like to have clear lines of thought and 
positive decisions. They ticket things off, and stick to their 
classifications through thick and thin, as if they were infallible. 
But you do wrong to care for the opinion of the stupid and un- 
educated.” 

“ I should like to believe you, but how can I ? If, as you 
say, we have fallen so low as even to earn the contempt of the 
stupid — ” 

“ My darling,” he said, and then he stopped as if a bullet had 
gone through him. “ I — I beg your pardon ; but I really fancied 
for the moment I was quarrelling with some of Dove’s nonsense — ” 

She smiled in such an easy way at the mistake, however, that 
he saw she put no importance upon it. 

“ I was going to say, how could stupid people exist if they did 
not despise their superiors in wit, and intellect, and artistic per- 
ception ? There is a man at my club, for instance, who is intel- 
lectually, as he is physically, a head and shoulders taller than any 
of his brother members. What reputation has he ? Simply that 
of being ‘ an amusing young fellow, but — but very shallow, don’t 
you know ?’ The empty-headed idiots of the smoking-room sit 
and laugh at his keen humor, and delicate irony, and witty stories ; 
and rather patronize and pity him in that he is weak enough to be 
amusing. A dull man always finds his refuge in calling a man of 
brighter parts than himself ‘ shallow.’ You should see this friend 
of mine when he goes down into the country to see his relations ; 
how he is looked upon at the dinner-table as being only fit to 
make the women smile ; and how some simpering fool of a squire, 
with nothing more brilliant in his library than a pair of hunting- 


SCHON-ROHTRAUT. 


117 


boots, will grin compassionately to some other thick-headed boor, 
as though it were a ludicrous thing to see a man make himself so 
like a woman in being witty and entertaining.” 

“And you think the women in these country-houses more in- 
telligent and amusing than the men ?” 

“ God help country-houses when the women are taken out of 
them !” 

“What a large portion of my life have I wasted over this 
abominable ‘ Bradshaw !’ ” said Count Schonstein, coming up at 
that moment, and their conversation was for the present stopped. 

But Will now recognized more firmly than ever the invisible 
barrier that was placed between her and the people among whom 
his life had been cast ; and, perhaps, for Dove’s sake, he was a 
little glad that he could never look upon this too-charming young 
actress but as the inhabitant of another world. And sometimes, 
too, he involuntarily echoed Dove’s exclamation, “ You are too 
beautiful to be an actress !” 

When, after a pleasant little supper-party in the Mayence Ho- 
tel, at which they stopped, they parted for the night, Will con- 
gratulated himself on the resolution he had taken in the morning. 
It had been such a pleasant day ; and who was the worse for it ? 
He was sick at heart when he thought the time would come in 
which he could no more enjoy the keen pleasure of sitting near 
this tender creature, of watching her pretty ways, and listening 
to her voice. The love he felt for her seemed to give him a right 
of property in her, and he thought of her going forever away 
from him as an irreparable and painful loss. There was a quick, 
anxious throbbing at his heart as he attempted to picture that 
last interview ; for he had resolved that after their return to Eng- 
land he would not permit himself to see her again. He thought 
of her going away from him without once knowing of that subtle 
personal link which seemed to unite them in a secret friendship. 
She would be quite unconscious of the pain of that parting ; she 
might even think that he had yielded to the prejudices of which 
she bad spoken, and had become ashamed of her friendship. 

“ That, too, must be borne,” he said, with a sigh. “ I cannot 
explain why I should cease to see her ; and yet we must never 
meet again after we return to England. If it were not for Dove, 
I should look out for some appointment abroad, and so get an 
excuse ; for it is hard to think that I must wound the self-respect 


118 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


of so gentle a creature by appearing to refuse her proffered friend- 
ship without a cause.” 

Then he sat down and wrote a long letter to Dove ; and for 
the first time he felt a great constraint upon him in so doing. 
He was so anxious, too, that she should not notice the constraint, 
that he wrote in a more than usually affectionate strain, and strove 
to impress her with the necessity of their being married very soon. 

“ Once married,” he said to himself, “ I shall soon forget this 
unhappy business. In any case, we must all suffer more or less ; 
and it is entirely owing to my carelessness in enjoying Miss 
Brunei’s society without looking at what it might lead to. But 
how should a man of my years have anticipated such a thing? 
Have I not been intimate with as pretty and as accomplished 
women in all parts of the world, without ever dreaming of falling 
in love with them ?” 

But no, there was no woman so pretty and charming as this 
one, he reflected. No one at all. And so, counting up in his 
mind, like a miser counting his guineas, one by one, the few days 
he would yet have to spend in the torturing delight of being near 
to her, he got him to bed, and did not dream of St. Mary -Kirby. 

The next day they reached Freiburg, and here the count had 
a carriage awaiting them, with a couple of swarthy Schwarzwalders 
in his somewhat ostentatious livery. 

“ Now we are getting home,” he said, with a bland laugh, to 
Mrs. Christmas; “and you must have a very long rest after so 
much travelling. We shall see what the air of Schonstein will do 
for you, and a little of the Schonstein wine — eh, eh?” 

Their entrance to the Black Forest was inauspicious. It was 
towards the afternoon before they left Freiburg ; and the air was 
oppressively hot and sultry. Just as they were approaching the 
Hollenthal — the Valley of Hell — a strange noise attracted Will’s 
attention; and, looking over the back of the open carriage, he 
saw behind them a great red cloud, that entirely shut out the 
landscape. Two minutes afterward a sudden gust of wind smote 
them with the violence of a tornado ; they were enveloped in a 
dense lurid pall of sand, and before they could cover over the 
carriage great drops of rain began to fall. Then the far-off 
rumbling of thunder, and an occasional gleam of reflected light- 
ning, told what was coming. 

The count looked much alarmed. 


SCHON-ROHTRAUT. 


119 


“The Hollenthal is a fearful place,” said he to the ladies: 
“overhanging rocks, dark as pitch, precipices, you know, and — 
and hadn’t we better return to Freiburg? That is, if you think 
you will be afraid. For myself, I’d rather go on to-night, and 
save a day.” 

“Don’t think of turning on our account,” said Annie Brunei. 
“Mrs. Christmas and I have been together in a good many 
storms.” 

So they went on, and entered that gloomy gorge, which is here 
the gate-way into the Black Forest. They had just got them- 
selves closed in by the mighty masses of rock, when the storm 
thoroughly broke over their head. It was now quite dark, and 
the thin white shafts of lightning shot down through the ravine, 
lighting up the fantastic and rugged sides of the pass with a 
sudden sharpness. Then the thunder crackled overhead, and was 
re - echoed in hollow rumbles, as if they were in a cavern with 
huge waves beating outside ; and the rain fell in torrents, hiss- 
ing on the road, and swelling the rapid stream that foamed 
and dashed down its rocky channel by their side. Every flash 
whitened the four faces inside the carriage with a spectral glare ; 
and sometimes they got a passing glance down the precipice, by 
the side of which the road wound, or up among the overhanging 
blocks and crags of the mountains. 

Mrs. Christmas had been in many a thunder-storm, but never 
in the Hollenthal, and the little woman was terrified out of her 
life. At every rattling report of the thunder she squeezed Miss 
Brunei’s hand more tightly, and muttered another sentence of an 
incoherent prayer. 

“ Unless you want to kill your horses, count,” said Will, “ you’ll 
stop at the first inn we come to ; that is about a mile farther on. 
I can tell by the sound of the wheels that the horses are drag- 
ging them through the mud and ruts by main force; and up 
this steep ascent that won’t last long.” 

“ Think of poor Mary and Hermann !” said Annie Brunei. 
“ Where must they be ?” 

“ I’ll answer for Hermann coming on to-night, if he’s alive,” 
said the count. “ And I hope that he and the luggage and Mary 
won’t be found in the morning down in that tremendous hole 
where the stream is. Bless my life ! did any mortal ever see such 
a place, and such a night ? What a flash that was 1” 


120 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


It was about midnight when they reached the Stern Inn ; and 
very much astonished were the simple people, when they were 
waked up, to find that a party of visitors had ventured to come 
through the Hell Valley on such a night. 

“And the hired carriage from Freiburg, Herr Graf,” said the 
chief domestic of the little hostlery ; “ it won’t come up the val- 
ley before the morning.” 

“ What does the fool say ?” the count inquired of Will. 

“ He says that the trap with the luggage won’t come up to- 
night.” 

“ Bah !” said the count, grandly. “ Sie wissen nicht dass mein 
Forster kommt; und er kommt durch zwanzig — durch zwan- 
zig — zwanzig — damme, get some supper, and mind your own 
business !” 

“Yes, eef you please, my lord,” said the man, who knew a little 
English. 

The count was right. Hermann did turn up, and Mary, and 
the luggage. But the hired vehicle had been a badly fitting 
affair, and the rain had got in so copiously that Mary was dis- 
covered sitting with Hermann’s coat wrapped round her, while 
the tall keeper had submitted to be drenched with the inevitable 
good-humor of six-feet-two. Some of the luggage also was wet ; 
but it was carried into the great warm kitchen, and turned out 
and examined. 

At supper, the count, who was inclined to be merry, drank a 
good quantity of Affenthaler, and congratulated Mrs. Christmas 
on her heroic fortitude. Annie Brunei was quiet and pleasant 
as usual — a trifle grave, perhaps, after that passage through the 
Hollenthal. Will was at once so happy and so miserable — so 
glad to be sitting near the young Italian-looking girl, so haunted 
by the dread of having to separate from her in a short week or 
two — that he almost wished the storm had hurled the vehicle 
down into the bed of the stream, and that there he and Schon- 
Rohtraut might have been found dead together in the gray 
morning. 


SCHONSTEIN. 


121 


CHAPTER XVI. 

SCHONSTEIN. 

“Welcome to Schonstein !” cried the count, gayly, as a turn 
in the road brought them in sight of a little hamlet, a small 
church, and beyond these — somewhat back from the village — an 
immense white house with green sunshades over the windows. 

“Friend Anerley,” said the count to himself, “if you ever had 
a thought of paying your addresses to the lady opposite you, your 
case is rather hopeless now /” 

Annie Brunei looked forward through the ruddy mist that the 
sunset was pouring over the picture before them, and thought 
that it was very beautiful indeed. She paid little attention to the 
gaunt white house. But this little village, set in a clearing of the 
great forest — its brown wooden houses, with their heavy project- 
ing eaves and numerous windows; the small white church, with a 
large sundial painted in black on the gable ; the long, sloping hill 
behind, covered, away even to the horizon, with the black-green 
pines of the Schwarzwald — all these things, steeped in the crim- 
son glow of the western light, were indeed most charming and 
picturesque. 

“ Why do they project the roofs so much ?” she said, looking 
especially at the inn of the little hamlet they were approaching. 
“ I thought these splendid old houses only existed in Swiss litho- 
graphs.” 

“ For the snow,” said the count, grandly, as if the intensity of 
the Black Forest winters belonged to him. “You should see a 
regular snow-storm in this country, with half the houses buried, 
the mail-coaches turned into sledges — why, every man who keeps 
a carriage here must keep it in duplicate — a wheel-carriage for 
the summer, a sledge for the winter.” 

With which they drove through the village. Hans Halm, the 
sturdy innkeeper, was at the door of that palace in brown wood 
which he called his house ; and to Hermann’s hurried “ Wie 

6 


124 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


Grete was in the court-yard. On the contrary, with a curt “ 'n 
Abend, Grete” he passed her, and busied himself in seeing that 
the count and his guests were being properly attended to by the 
servants, and that the luggage was being straightway carried in. 

Margarethe Halm, with her heart beating worse than ever, came 
timidly forward, then hung about a little, and at last ventured to 
say, with a little quivering of the mouth, 

“ Thou hast never even shaken hands with me, Hermann.” 
“But thou seest that I am busy, Grete, and — Donnerwetter, 
idiot, look what you do with the lady’s box ! — and thou shouldst 
not have come at such a time, when the Herr Graf and his visit- 
ors have just arrived, and expect — ” 

He proceeded to give some more orders ; for the head-forester 
was an important man in Schonstein, and looked upon the count’s 
domestics as he looked upon his own keepers. But happening 
to turn, he caught a glimpse of what suddenly smote down his 
gruff pride — Margarethe Halm was standing by, with her soft 
black eyes brimming over with tears. Of course his stalwart 
arms were round her shoulders in a moment, and he was talking 
pettingly and caressingly to her, as if she were an infant, with 
ever so many du's, and Mein's, and chen's. 

The count’s big mansion, though it looked like a whitewashed 
cotton-factory outside, was inside very prettily furnished ; and the 
long, low -roofed rooms, with their polished wooden floors and 
gayly decorated walls, were very cool and pleasant. There was 
little garden about the house ; the ground behind was laid out in 
formal walks between avenues of acacias and limes ; there was a 
little pond with a plaster-boy in the centre, who spouted a thin 
jet of water through a pipe ; and there was, at the farther end 
of the trees, an artificial ruin which the previous proprietor had 
failed to complete when the count took possession of the place. 

“ How lovely the village looks in that red light !” said Annie 
Brunei, as they all went out on the balcony of the room in which 
dinner had been laid for them. 

“But the glory of Schonstein,” said the count, slapping Will 
on the shoulder — “ I say, the glory of Schonstein, my boy, lies in 
those miles and miles of trees — the deer, my lad, the deer ! Ah, 
Miss Brunei, when I see you take a gun upon your shoulder, and 
march into the forest with us — like Diana, you know — ” 

He looked at her with the admiring smile of an elderly Adonis. 


SCHONSTEIN. 


125 


Had he not the right, now that she had seen his splendor and his 
wealth ? Could he doubt any longer about his chance of win- 
ning that white little hand ? 

“ You are too kind, count,” she said, laughingly. “ Lady Jane 
will tell you that the very name of Diana has been always hate- 
ful to me.” 

“It’s Diana Vernon she means,” said Mrs. Christmas, with a 
pretty little laugh, “ that she used to play before she became a 
grand lady. And play it she did, count, take my word for it, as 
well as ever you could think of ; and as for me, I never could un- 
derstand how she so hated the part, which is a very good part for 
a young miss that can sing. I declare the dialogue is quite beau- 
tiful.” 

Here she gave, with great feeling and correct, impassioned em- 
phasis, some passages in which the Diana and Francis of that ri- 
diculous drama talk bombastic sentiment to each other, causing 
Miss Brunei to laugh until the tears ran down her cheeks. 

“ You may laugh as you like, Miss Annie, but it’s a beautiful 
piece ; and how many years is it since you played it for my ben- 
efit?” 

“ You’re making me quite old, Lady Jane,” protested the young 
actress. 

“ People have only to look at you, my dear,” continued the 
bright little old woman, “ and they won’t make a mistake. That 
was the very last time I went on the stage, count; and do you 
know what I played? Why, Miami, in ‘The Green Bushes.’ 
And Miss Annie, here, just to please me, consented to play Nelly 
O’Neil ; and, will you believe me, Mr. Anerley, I stood in the 
wings and cried — me, an old woman, who had heard it all a thou- 
sand times — when she began to sing ‘ The Green Bushes.’ Have 
you heard it, count ? — don’t you know the words of it ? 

“ ‘ As I was a-walking one morning in May, 

To hear the birds singing, and see lambkins play, 

I espied a young damsel, so sweetly sung she, 

Down by the Green Bushes, where she chanced to meet me.’ 

There was Polly Hastings — she played Geraldine then — came 
to me after that last night, and said, solemnly, that she would 
give herself over to the devil if he would only make her able to 
sing the ballad as Miss Annie sung it that night. The people in 
the pit — ” 


126 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Mrs. Christmas will go on romancing all the evening, Mr. An- 
erley, if you don’t stop her,” said Miss Brunei. 

“And poor Tom Mulloney — he played Wild Murtogh for 
me — do you remember, Miss Annie, that morning at rehearsal, 
when they came and told him that his wife and the little boy 
were drowned? He didn’t speak a word — not a word; he only 
shook a little, and was like to fall ; then he walked out, and he 
was never on the boards of a theatre again. He took to drink- 
ing as if he was mad ; and he was put in an asylum at last ; and 
they say he used to sing all his old songs at the amateur concerts 
in the place, you know, better nor ever he had sung them in the 
theatre — that was ‘The Dance on the Flure,’ and ‘The Jug o’ 
Punch,’ and ‘ Savourneen Deelish,’ and ‘ The Coulin ’ — ” 

“ The Coulin !” said Will, with a sort of chill at the heart : he 
had forgotten all about Dove, and St. Mary-Kirby ; and the remem- 
brance of them, at that moment, seemed to reproach him somehow. 

“ Do you know ‘ The Coulin ?’ ” asked Miss Brunei, wondering 
at his sudden gravity. 

“ Yes,” said he, with an affectation of carelessness. “ It is one 
of Dove’s favorite airs. But she won’t accept the modern words 
as representing the song; she will have it that the melody de- 
scribes the parting of two friends — ” 

“ Come, then,” said the count, briskly, “ dinner is ready. Miss 
Brunei, you shall play us the — the what, did you say ? — to-mor- 
row, after the man has come from Donaueschingen to tune the 
piano. Not a bad piano, either, as you’ll see; and now I don’t 
grudge having bought it along with the rest of the furniture, 
when I find that you will charm us with an occasional song. 
Four hundred florins, I think it was ; but I don’t know.” 

As they retired into the long dining-saloon, where a sufficiently 
good dinner was placed on the table, Hermann came out into the 
court -yard, surrounded by a lot of yelping little beagles, with 
short, stumpy legs, long ears, long noses, and sagacious eyes. 
Further, there was a huge brown mastiff, with long, lithe limbs 
and tremendous jaws, at sight of which Grete shrunk back, for 
the brute was the terror of the village. 

“ Go down, then, thou stupid dog, thou worthless fellow ! seest 
thou not the young lady is afraid ? Ah, du guter Hund, du Ru- 
dolph, and so thou knowest me again ? Come along, Grete, he 
won’t touch you ; and we’ll go to see your father.” 


SCHONSTEIN. 


127 


“You won’t tell him I was waiting for you, Hermann?” said 
the girl, shyly. 

Hans Halm stood at the door of his chalet-looking hostlery, in 
a thin white coat and a broad straw hat, with a complacent, be- 
nevolent smile on his stout visage and shrewd blue eyes. Some- 
times he looked up and down the road, wondering what had be- 
come of Grete, who, Frau Halm being dead, had taken her moth- 
er’s place in the management of the inn. Perhaps Hans sus- 
pected where his tender-hearted, black-eyed daughter had gone ; 
at least, he was in no wise surprised to see her coming back with 
Hermann, Rudolph joyously barking by their side. The two 
men shook hands heartily, and kissed each other ; for had they 
not, some years before, pledged themselves solemnly to call each 
other “ du,” and sworn eternal friendship, and drunk a prodigious 
quantity of Affenthaler over that ceremony ? 

“ Gretchen, get you in-doors ; the house is quite full, and you 
can’t expect your grandmother to do everything.” 

Hermann looked into the passage. On the pegs along the 
wall were hung a number of guns — nearly all of them double-bar- 
relled breech-loaders, with white barrels, and broad green straps 
for the slinging of them over the shoulder. 

“ My men are within, nicht wahr ?” he said. 

“ Listen, and you will hear,” said Hans Halm. 

From the door by which Grete had disappeared there issued 
a faint murmur of voices and a strong odor of tobacco - smoke. 
Hermann went forward and opened this door, meeting there a 
picture with which he was quite familiar, but which it is wholly 
impossible to describe. The chief room of the inn, monopolizing 
all the ground-floor, and lighted by ten or twelve small windows, 
was almost filled with a cloud of pale-blue smoke, in which pict- 
uresque groups of men were seen seated round the long narrow 
tables. Brown-faced, bearded men, they wore the foresters’ dress 
of green and gray, with a tall beaver hat in which were stuck 
some capercailzie feathers, with a large cartridge-pouch of roe- 
skin slung over their shoulder by a green strap, with a horn 
slung round their neck by means of a twisted green cord with 
tattered tassels, and with a long killing-knife lying on the table 
before them, with which they from time to time cut a lump off 
the brown loaf. All round the low-roofed room, forming a sort 
of cornice, ran a row of deers’ horns tastefully mounted, each 


128 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


marked with the date on which the animal had been shot. These 
were, for the most part, the product of Hans Halm’s personal 
skill, though the finest pair had been presented to him by Her- 
mann. Besides the under-keepers, there were one or two villa- 
gers, and in a corner sat young Gersbach, his spectacles firmly 
fixed on the book before him, except when Margarethe Halm 
happened to pass before him, as she brought in fresh chopins ol 
white-wine to the swarthy, sinewy, picturesque foresters. 

Of course Hermann’s entrance was the signal for a general up- 
roar, all the keepers starting from the benches and crowding round 
him to bid him welcome. At last he managed to get clear of 
them, and then he sat down on one of the benches. 

“ Listen, friends !” he said, in a loud voice, bringing down his 
hand with a bang on the table. 

There was instant silence. 

“The Herr Graf and his friend go shooting to-morrow morn- 
ing. Every man will be here by four o’clock — four o’clock, do 
you understand? In placing the guns, you will take care that 
the Herr Graf, and the other Englander, have the Hauptplatz* 
alternately. Four o’clock, every one of you, remember. And 
now, in God’s name, Hans Halm, let us have some of your white- 
wine, that I haven’t tasted for many a day.” 

There was a new life in the big forester, now that he had sniff- 
ed the resinous odor of his native woods, and was once more 
among his own people. He languished in the dull solitude of 
Kent: here he knew his business, he was respected of men, and 
he speedily showed that there was none of the old swing and vig- 
or gone out of him. 

He had scarcely spoken of the wine, when Grete came up with 
it in a tall white measure, a modest and pleased smile on her 
face. 

“She does not smile like that to the young Mr. School - mas- 
ter,” whispered one keeper to another. “ Our Gretchen has her 
favorites.” 

“ God give her courage if she marries Hermann !” said the 
other. “ He will drive her as we drive the roe.” 

* The Hauptplatz is the point at which the deer are most likely to break 
cover, and therefore the best position for the sportsman. There are general- 
ly one or two of these good places, which are invariably given, as a compli. 
ment, to strangers. 


SCHONSTEIN. 


129 


11 Nonsense ! Hermann Lowe is an infant with women. You 
should see how his sister-in-law in Donaueschingen manages him.” 

At this moment the school-master, whom nobody had noticed, 
came forward and said to his rival, 

“ How do you find yourself, Hermann Lowe ?” 

“ Ah, right well, Herr Schulmeister,” replied the other, giving 
him a hearty grasp of the hand. “ And I’ll tell you what I’ve 
got for you in my box. I looked for all the beetles, and creep- 
ing things, and butterflies I could in England, and all the strange 
ones I have brought for you, with a fine big pin run through 
their body.” 

“You are very kind, Hermann Lowe.” 

“ No, I’m not. You did a good turn to my sister-in-law’s child, 
when he was nearly dead with eating those berries — that’s all. 
And do you still read as much, and gather beetles yourself? 
Now, look here — I must have all the lads in the neighborhood to 
drive for me in the morning, and they’ll have to work hard, for 
the Herr Graf is not a patient man, and he gets angry if there are 
not plenty of bucks; and so, if the boys are too tired to go to 
the evening-school — you understand ?” 

Gersbach nodded. 

“ And the Herr Graf will be pleased if you come with us your- 
self, Gersbach,” added Hermann. 

Later in the evening the count’s party came round to visit the 
inn. By this time Hermann had gone ; but there still remained 
a few of the keepers, who, on seeing the count, politely rose from 
their seats. 

“ Nein, said the count, in a lordly way, “ eh — ah — sitzen sie, 
gute Freundin — eh, Freunde — und wie sind Sie, Herr Halm und 
sein Tochter?” 

Halm, with admirable gravity, replied to the count as if his 
highness’s manner and grammar had quite impressed the poor 
mnkeeper. 

“Very well indeed, Herr Graf; and Grete, she will be here 
this moment. I understand you are going to shoot to-morrow 
morning, Herr Graf ; I hope you will have much sport.” 

“ He says the deer are very plentiful,” observed the count, orac- 
ularly, to Annie Brunei. “ So you really must come with us to- 
morrow and see our luck.” 

“Are these roe-deers’ horns?” the young lady asked. “Pray 

6 * 


130 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


ask him how he came to have so many. Did he shoot them all 
himself ?” 

The count turned, with rather an uncomfortable expression, 
towards the innkeeper, and said (in German), 

“ The lady loves to know if — you have — everything shot.” 

Halm looked aghast. Was the count going to impeach him 
with having thinned the neighboring woods during the owner’s 
absence ? He immediately broke into a long explanation and de- 
scription of all the drives they had had that season, and told how the 
deer were so plentiful that the people were complaining bitterly 
of having their fields and gardens eaten up, and so forth, and so 
forth. But the embarrassment of the count’s face only deepened, 
and still further deepened, until, in a querulous tone, he cried out, 

“ I say, Anerley, I think you’d better come and listen to what 
he says about the sport you’re likely to get to-morrow, rather 
than waste time in showing Mrs. Christmas things she doesn’t 
care about !” (This with a hot face and excited air.) 

“ If you listen, isn’t that enough ?” said Anerley. 

“ But, damme, I can’t understand a word he says ; he talks like 
an engine, and all in that horrid patois. Herr Halm, I compre- 
hend ; but do you know, the lady loves to drink your white-wine.” 
(This in German.) 

“ Some white-wine, Herr Graf ?” 

“Yes. Not many. We wish to drink all — four glasses, you 
understand.” 

“It is so difficult,” continued the count, addressing Miss Bru- 
nei, “ to get these people to understand German, if you don’t 
speak their barbarous form of it. However, I have told him we 
all wished to taste the white-wine they drink here — not a bad 
wine, and remarkably cheap.” 

“ Let me introduce you, Miss Brunei,” said Will, “ to Miss 
Grete Halm, who says she speaks French, and will be delighted 
to escort you to-morrow at any time you may wish to join us. 
Grete says she once shot a deer herself ; but I suspect somebody 
else pulled the trigger while she held the gun.” 

Gretchen came forward, with a warm blush on her brown 
cheek; and then it was arranged (she speaking French fluently 
enough, but with a Schwarzwald accent) that she and Annie Bru- 
nei would seek out the shooting party towards the forenoon of 
the following day. 


THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF. 


131 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF. 

In the dusk of the early morning the keepers, drivers, and dogs 
had assembled in the large room of Hans Halm’s inn. Hermann 
was there too, with the great-jawed Rudolph ; and Margarethe, 
with a shadowy reminiscence of recent dreams in her soft black 
eyes, stood quietly on one side, or brought some beer to this or 
that gruff forester, who had perhaps walked a dozen miles that 
morning to the place of rendezvous. The dogs lay under the 
chairs, the guns and deer-skin pouches of the men were on the 
table before them, by the side of their tall feathered beavers ; and 
if the whole scene did not look as if it had been cut out of an 
opera, it was because the picturesque trappings of the keepers 
had been sobered in color by the rain and sun of many years, and 
because there dwelt over the party an austere silence. The ex- 
citement of the day had not commenced. 

When the count and Will arrived at the place of meeting, a 
faint flush of rose-color was beginning to steal along the dark 
violet of the dawn ; and as the whole party set out, in straggling 
twos and threes, along the gray road, daylight began to show it- 
self over the fields and the mist-covered woods. 

Hermann, who led the way, was accompanied by a little old 
man with a prodigious black mustache, twinkling eyes, and com- 
ical gravity of face, who was captain over the drivers, and named 
Spiegelmann. The venerable Spiegelmann, with his tall hat and 
slung horn, was a man of importance ; and he had already, with 
much seriousness, pronounced his opinion on the direction of the 
wind, and on the necessity for beginning the driving some con- 
siderable distance farther on. 

Then came Will Anerley, who had made friends with the 
young school-master, Gersbach, and was very anxious to know 
how life was to be made tolerable if one lived at Schonstein all 
the year round. Indeed, Anerley’s having travelled so much, and 
among so many different people, combined with a certain natural 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


132 

breadth of sympathy, gave him a peculiar interest in trying to 
imagine himself in the position of almost every man whom he 
met. How did those men regard the rest of the world ? What 
had they to look forward to ? What was their immediate aim, 
their immediate pleasure ? Anerley would take as much interest 
in the affairs of an apple-woman, and talk as gravely and freely 
to her about them, as he would in the more ambitious projects of 
an artist or a man of letters. The gratifying of this merely in- 
tellectual curiosity was a constant habit and source of satisfaction 
to him ; and while it offended some people by the frankness of 
speech, and charmed others by the immediate generosity and self- 
denial which were its natural results, it promised to leave him, 
sooner or later, in the attitude of negative criticism and social 
isolation which his father exhibited. Fortunately, he had inher- 
ited from his mother a certain warmth of heart and impulse, 
which corrected his transmitted tendency to theorize : it was this 
side of his temperament which had brought upon him his present 
misfortune, while he had been engaged, out of pure curiosity, in 
studying Annie Brunei’s character, and endeavoring to enter into 
her views of the people and things around her. In fact, the pur- 
suit of which I speak, though extremely enticing and pleasant, 
should never be attempted by an unmarried man who has not 
passed his fortieth year. 

In the present case, the young Herr Schulmeister took an in- 
stant liking for the grave, cheerful, plain-spoken man beside him, 
who seemed, to concern himself about other people, and was so 
ready with excuses for them. 

“ I should not take you to be an Englishman,” said Gersbach. 

“ Why ?” 

“You have none of the English character. Count Schonstein 
is an Englishman — a typical Englishman — conceited, bigoted in 
his own opinions, generous when it is permitted to him to be 
ostentatious, dull and stupid, and jealous of people who are 
not so — ” 

“ My friend,” said Will, “ why didn’t you leave your dolls be- 
hind you in the nursery? Or is this typical Englishman one of 
your university puppets? You know there is no such thing as 
a typical Englishman, or typical Frenchman, or typical German; 
and I have almost come to believe that there is no such thing as 
national character. The most reckless prodigals I have met have 


THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF- 


133 


been Scotchmen ; the keenest business-men I have met have been 
Irishmen ; the dullest and most melancholy, Frenchmen — ” 

“And the Germans?” asked Gersbach, with a laugh. 

“The Germans are like anybody else, so far as disposition 
goes, although they happen to be educationally and intellectually 
a little ahead of other nations. And as for the poor Graf, I don’t 
think you, for example, would make half as good a man as he is 
if you were in his position.” 

“ Perhaps not ; but why ?” 

“ I can’t exactly explain it to you in German ; but doctrinair- 
ism is not the first requisite in a landlord ; and if you were the 
Graf, you would be for coercing the people under you and about 
you into being logical, and you would withdraw yourself from 
people who opposed you, and you would gradually weaken your 
influence and destroy your chances of doing good. Why are our 
Tory country gentlemen always better liked by the people than 
the Radical proprietors? Why are Tories, as a rule, pleasanter 
companions than Radicals ? I am a Radical, but I always prefer 
dining with a Tory ?” 

“ Is the count a Tory ?” asked the Schulmeister. 

“ Yes. Men who have been in business and earned, or gained, 
a lot of money, almost invariably become fierce Tories. It is 
their first passport to respectability ; and there is no step one can 
take so cheaply as that of changing one’s political theories.” 

“ What a singular social life you have in England !” cried Gers- 
bach, blinking with a curious sort of humor behind his big spec- 
tacles. “ There is the demi-monde, for example. Why, you talk 
of that, and your writers speak of it, as if there was an acknowl- 
edged rivalry openly carried on between the members of it and 
your married women.” 

“ But our married women,” said Will, “ are going to form a 
trades-union among themselves in order to crush that institution.” 

At which Franz Gersbach looked puzzled: these English were 
capable of trying any mad expedient ; and somehow their devices 
always worked well, except in such matters as popular education, 
military efficiency, music, scholarship, and so forth. As for a 
trades-union of any kind, it was sure to flourish in England. 

They had now reached the edge of the forest, and here Her- 
mann called the party around him, and gave his orders in a loud, 
peremptory tone, which had the effect of considerably frighten- 


134 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


ing his master ; the count hoped that he would do nothing inac- 
curate. 

“You, Herr Schulmeister, will accompany the drivers, and 
Spiegelmann will give you one of the return - posts. Falz, you 
will go down to the new-cut road — Greef on your right, Beigel 
farther along. Spiegelmann will sound his horn when you are 
all posted, and the second horn when the drive commences. For- 
ward, then, in God’s name, all of us !” 

And away trooped the lads under the surveillance of the ven- 
erable Spiegelmann, who had a couple of brace of leashed beagles 
pulling and straining and whining to get free into the brushwood. 
Hermann, Will, and the count at once dived into the twilight of 
the tall pines, that almost shut out the red flames of the morn- 
ing over their peaks. The soft, succulent yellow moss was heavy 
with dew, and so were the ferns and the stoneberry bushes. A 
dense carpet of this low brushwood deadened the sound of their 
progress; and they advanced, silent as phantoms, into the dim 
recesses of the wood. Here and there occurred an opening or 
clearance, with a few felled trees lying about; then they strug- 
gled through a wilderness of younger fir and oak, and finally 
came into a tract of the forest where nothing was to be seen, as 
far as the eye could reach, but innumerable tall trunks, coated 
with the yellow and gray lichens of many years, branchless al- 
most to their summit, and rising from a level plain of damp 
green moss. There was not even the sound of a bird, or of a 
falling leaf, to break the intense silence of the place; nor was 
there the shadow of any living thing to be seen down those long 
narrow avenues between the closely growing stems of the trees. 

“ Count Schonstein,” said Will, in a whisper, as they drew 
near the Hauptplatz, “ what gun is that you have with you ?” 

“ My ordinary breech-loader.” 

“ Carries far ?” 

“ I should think so. Shoots hard and close as a rifle.” 

“ Will it kill at fifty yards ?” 

“ It might.” 

“ Hermann,” said Will, turning to the head - keeper, “ I insist 
on being posted eighty yards distant from the count.” 

“You think that is a joke,” said the count, peevishly. 

“ I don’t think it a joke at all,” said Will. “ Breech-loaders 
have a wonderful faculty of going off when nobody expects 


THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF. 


135 


them ; and though you may explain the thing satisfactorily after- 
ward, that won’t remove a few buck-shot out of your leg.” 

“ I am not in the habit of letting my gun go off accidentally,” 
said the count, grandly. “ Indeed, I flatter myself that few men 
better understand the use of — ” 

“ The Hauptplatz, Herr,” said Hermann, unceremoniously 
breaking in upon his master. “ The Herr Graf will be stationed 
farther down this path ; you must not shoot in that direction. 
You may shoot in front as the deer come to you, or after them 
when they have passed ; not along this line, only.” 

“Danke schon, Hermann, and tell the same thing to the 
count.” 

He now found himself opposite a tall tree, which had a cross 
in red paint traced upon the trunk. The count and Hermann 
passed on, and when the three were posted, each held out his 
arm, and signalled that he understood his immediate neighbor’s 
position, and would remember it. 

Scarcely had they done so when a long and loud tantara from 
Spiegelmann’s horn told them that the drivers were ready. A 
faint echo now came from the other side of the strip of forest, 
showing that there the keepers were posted ; and finally a return 
blast from Hermann’s horn proclaimed that all were waiting. 

Once more a brilliant trill from Spiegelmann — this time an 
audacious and elaborate effort, full of noisy anticipation — came 
through the wood ; and then were heard the faint and far - off 
sounds of yelping dogs, and shouting men, and sticks being beaten 
against the stumps of the trees. The drive had commenced. 
Count Schonstein began to tremble ; his heart went faster and 
faster, as his excited brain peopled all the dim vistas of the trees 
with living forms. He could scarcely breathe with absolute fear. 
Again and again he looked at his triggers, and the hammers, and 
the little spikes of brass which he hoped would strike death into 
the ribs of some splendid buck. He began to assure himself that 
he could not tell a buck from a doe if the animal ran quickly ; 
that he must shoot at once, and trust to Providence keeping the 
tender feminine members of the herd out of the way. Indeed, 
he had already framed an excuse for having shot a doe, and he 
was busily picturing his assumed regret, and his inner delight at 
being able to shoot anything, when — 

By this time a dead silence had intervened. The first joyous 


136 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


yelping of tlie dogs had quite died down ; and now the broad- 
footed, stump-legged, big-headed little animals were wiring them- 
selves through the brushwood, and jumping over the soft moss, 
with an occasional toss of their long ears or a slight whine. The 
only sound to be heard was the occasional rattling of sticks by 
the beaters, accompanied by their peculiar guttural cry. 

Suddenly — and the whole empty space of the wood seemed to 
quiver for a moment with this instantaneous throb of life — Will 
caught a glimpse of a light shimmer of brown away at the end 
of one of the long avenues. For a moment the apparition was 
lost; when it reappeared, it was evident that the deer was bear- 
ing down upon Count Schonstein’s position. The next second, 
a fine, lithe, thin-limbed, supple, and handsome buck came along 
in a light, easy canter into the gray light of the opener space. 
He had no thought of danger before him ; he only thought of 
that behind ; and for a brief space he stood right in front of the 
count, apparently listening intently for the strange sounds from 
which he fled. 

In despair, and rage, and amazement, Will saw him pause there, 
out of the range of his shot, and yet without an effort being made 
to secure the fine pair of horns which graced the animal’s head. 
Will now saw that the count’s gun was levelled, and that he was 
apparently pulling at the trigger, but no puff of smoke came out 
of the barrel. Almost at the same moment the deer must have 
seen the count; for all at once he shrunk back on his limbs, as 
if he had been struck, shivered lightly through his entire frame, 
and then, with a sudden leap, he was off and away out of sight, in 
the direction of Hermann. 

In that brief moment of time the count had taken down his 
gun, looked at the hammers, found they were on half-cock, cocked 
them, and put up his gun again; and then, as the deer was just 
vanishing, bang ! bang ! went both the barrels. Of course the 
buck was quite untouched ; but the next moment Will heard the 
sharp crack of a gun in the neighborhood of Hermann’s post, 
and he knew what that meant. 

Even at that, distance he could hear the count breathing out 
incomprehensible curses at his own stupidity, as he put another 
couple of cartridges into the barrels. Doubtless, in his excite- 
ment, he had been trying so often whether the hammers were on 
full-cock— pulling at them, letting them down, and so forth — that 


THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF. 


137 


accidentally they remained at half-cock, and so spoiled for him 
the easiest shot he was likely to get that day. 

The silence which had been broken by the report of the guns 
now fell again over the forest. The sun came out, too ; and soon 
there were straggling lanes of gold running down into the blue 
twilight of the distance, while the heat seemed to have suddenly 
awakened a drowsy humming of insect life. Now and then a 
brightly plumaged jay would flash through the trees, screaming 
hoarsely ; and then again the same dead, hot stillness prevailed. 
It was in this perfect silence that a living thing stole out of some 
short bushes, and softly made its way over the golden and green 
moss until it caught sight of Will. Then it cocked up its head, 
and calmly regarded him with a cold, glassy, curious stare. The 
moment it lifted its head he saw that it was a fox, not reddish- 
brown, but blackish-gray, with extraordinarily bright eyes ; and 
as they had been specially invited to shoot foxes — which are of 
no use for hunting purposes, and do much damage, in the Black 
Forest — he instinctively put up his gun. As instinctively, he put 
it down again. 

“ My old prejudices are too strong,” he said ; wherewith he 
contented himself with lifting a lump of dried wood and hurl- 
ing it at the small animal, which now slunk away in another di- 
rection. 

Then burst out the joyous howl of the beagles, here and there, 
as if every one of them had started his own particular game ; the 
yelping bark rising at times sharp and clear as if in the imme- 
diate neighborhood, at other times fading away into the distance. 
The fun had commenced. First there came trotting along a 
long-necked, thin-legged doe, with a little fawn by her side ; and 
these, catching sight of Will, made a sharp turn to the right and 
bore down upon the count. The latter, either too frightened or 
too savage to care for distinctions of sex or age, again blazed both 
barrels into the air, with what effect Will was too much occupied 
to see. 

For at the same moment there came down the line, transverse- 
ly, crossing in front of the count, a fine buck which Hermann had 
taken a long shot at and missed. The deer was going at full 
speed, careless of anything in front, his whole energy bent on 
speeding from the danger behind, and every thew and muscle of 
his body straining its utmost. As he passed, Will fired his right 


138 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


barrel into the flashing streak of brown — not a hair was touched ! 
The next moment the buck, seeing that no further enemy stood 
in front, wheeled round and made off to cross the path on which 
Will stood, at some distance farther down. Just as the shoulder 
of the animal appeared before the lane of trees, the v other barrel 
was sent after him : there was a shrill scream, the buck leaped a 
dozen feet into the air and fell, without a parting groan in him* 
head foremost on the soft moss. 

“ There is one pair of horns, at least, for Miss Brunei,” thought 
Will, hastily pushing in two more cartridges. 

The count had certainly plenty of good fortune, so far as the 
deer were concerned. One particularly handsome buck which 
had been running straight at him, without seeing him, he received 
with a hurriedly aimed shot which did no damage. The animal, 
however, got such a fright that it turned and galloped right back 
and through the ring of the beaters, escaping a parting, shot which 
old Spiegelmann aimed at him. Here and there a shot had been 
heard round the sides of the drive ; but as yet no one knew what 
the other had done. In a few minutes, however, the dogs and 
then the boys began to show themselves, approaching through 
the trees. That particular drive was over. 

Will hastened up to the count. 

“ What have you shot ?” 

“Nothing.” 

The count looked very much vexed ; and Will attributed it, of 
course, to his having missed so many shots. 

“ Why didn’t you shoot sooner at the deer that came up and 
looked at you ?” 

“ Why ?” re-echoed the count, with a savage laugh. “ Why ? 

Because these barrels were both on half-cock, and I pulled 

like to break my fingers over the things. What did you 

shoot ?” 

“ I believe I’ve left a buck lying down there.” 

“ Why don’t you go and look after him, and get somebody to 
carry him home, instead of waiting here ?” 

The count was evidently very uncomfortable. He bit his lip, 
he worked with the trigger of his gun ; and finally he walked 
abruptly away from Will, and addressed, in a whisper, the first of 
the boys who came up : 

“ Kommen Sie hier.” 


THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF. 


139 


The boy stared in amazement at being called “ Sie.” Of course 
he dared not think that the count was joking. 

“ Ich habe geschossen — wissen Sie — ?” 

“ Ja, Herr,” said the boy, vaguely, though he did not under- 
stand what the count meant. 

“ Ein kleines — ein gar kleines — D — n it, look here !” 

He caught the boy by the shoulder, as if he meant to kick 
him, and dragged him a few yards farther on and pointed to the 
ground. The boy opened his eyes : if he had seen the corpse of 
his first cousin lying there, he could not have been more aston- 
ished. 

“ Sie sehen es,” remarked the count, hurriedly, with a fine red 
flush burning in his stout face. 

“Ja, Herr.” 

There lay there a tiny, soft, pretty little animal, scarcely bigger 
than a King Charles spaniel, with a glossy light-brown coat, and 
large meek eyes, now glazed and dull. Blood was trickling from 
the little thing’s mouth, and also from its shoulder : the fact be- 
ing that the count, on seeing the doe and her fawn coming up, 
had fired both his barrels at them on chance, and had managed 
to destroy the helpless youngling. 

If you had told the count then that before evening every man, 
woman, and child in Schonstein would have heard of what he 
had done, that the keepers would be sneering at him and the 
neighbors laughing at him, he would probably have put another 
cartridge into his gun and shot himself (if he were able) on the 
spot. His present anxiety was to get this little lad to take away 
the fawn under his blouse and bury it somewhere ; but all he 
could do failed to impress the incorrigible young Schwarzwalder 
with his meaning. 

“ Verstehen Sie mir nicht ?” 

“Ja, Herr.” 

It was always “ Ja, Herr;” and here were the people coming 
up. Fortunately, Hermann, having sent a long blast of his horn 
to recall any straggling beater or keeper, had walked down to the 
place where Will’s slain buck was lying, accompanied by the rest 
of the keepers, who, as they came up, gravely shook hands with 
Will, according to custom, and wished him many more such 
shots. Then Spiegelmann, selecting a peculiarly shaped branch 
of young fir, stuck it into Will’s hat, by which all and sundry — 


138 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


barrel into the flashing streak of brown — not a hair was touched ! 
The next moment the buck, seeing that no further enemy stood 
in front, wheeled round and made off to cross the path on which 
Will stood, at some distance farther down. Just as the shoulder 
of the animal appeared before the lane of trees, the, other barrel 
was sent after him : there was a shrill scream, the buck leaped a 
dozen feet into the air and fell, without a parting groan in him, 
head foremost on the soft moss. 

“ There is one pair of horns, at least, for Miss Brunei,” thought 
Will, hastily pushing in two more cartridges. 

The count had certainly plenty of good fortune, so far as the 
deer were concerned. One particularly handsome buck which 
had been running straight at him, without seeing him, he received 
with a hurriedly aimed shot which did no damage. The animal, 
however, got such a fright that it turned and galloped right back 
and through the ring of the beaters, escaping a parting shot which 
old Spiegelmann aimed at him. Here and there a shot had been 
heard round the sides of the drive ; but as yet no one knew what 
the other had done. In a few minutes, however, the dogs and 
then the boys began to show themselves, approaching through 
the trees. That particular drive was over. 

Will hastened up to the count. 

“ What have you shot ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

The count looked very much vexed ; and Will attributed it, of 
course, to his having missed so many shots. 

“ Why didn’t you shoot sooner at the deer that came up and 
looked at you ?” 

“ Why ?” re-echoed the count, with a savage laugh. “ Why ? 

Because these barrels were both on half-cock, and I pulled 

like to break my fingers over the things. What did you 

shoot ?” 

“ I believe I’ve left a buck lying down there.” 

“ Why don’t you go and look after him, and get somebody to 
carry him home, instead of waiting here ?” 

The count was evidently very uncomfortable. He bit his lip, 
he worked with the trigger of his gun ; and finally he walked 
abruptly away from Will, and addressed, in a whisper, the first of 
the boys who came up : 

“ Kommen Sie hier.” 


THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF. 


139 


The boy stared in amazement at being called “ Sie.” Of course 
he dared not think that the count was joking. 

“ Ich habe geschossen — wissen Sie — ?” 

“ Ja, Herr,” said the boy, vaguely, though he did not under- 
stand what the count meant. 

“ Ein kleines — ein gar kleines — D — n it, look here !” 

He caught the boy by the shoulder, as if he meant to kick 
him, and dragged him a few yards farther on and pointed to the 
ground. The boy opened his eyes : if he had seen the corpse of 
his first cousin lying there, he could not have been more aston- 
ished. 

“ Sie sehen es,” remarked the count, hurriedly, with a fine red 
flush burning in his stout face. 

“Ja, Herr.” 

There lay there a tiny, soft, pretty little animal, scarcely bigger 
than a King Charles spaniel, with a glossy light-brown coat, and 
large meek eyes, now glazed and dull. Blood was trickling from 
the little thing’s mouth, and also from its shoulder : the fact be- 
ing that the count, on seeing the doe and her fawn coming up, 
had fired both his barrels at them on chance, and had managed 
to destroy the helpless youngling. 

If you had told the count then that before evening every man, 
woman, and child in Schonstein would have heard of what he 
had done, that the keepers would be sneering at him and the 
neighbors laughing at him, he would probably have put another 
cartridge into his gun and shot himself (if he were able) on the 
spot. His present anxiety was to get this little lad to take away 
the fawn under his blouse and bury it somewhere ; but all he 
could do failed to impress the incorrigible young Schwarzwalder 
with his meaning. 

“ Verstehen Sie mir nicht?” 

“Ja, Herr.” 

It was always “ Ja, Herr;” and here were the people coming 
up. Fortunately, Hermann, having sent a long blast of his horn 
to recall any straggling beater or keeper, had walked down to the 
place where Will’s slain buck was lying, accompanied by the rest 
of the keepers, who, as they came up, gravely shook hands with 
Will, according to custom, and wished him many more such 
shots. Then Spiegelmann, selecting a peculiarly shaped branch 
of young fir, stuck it into Will’s hat, by which all and sundry — 


140 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


particularly they of the village — as the shooting - party returned 
at night, might know that he had brought down a buck. 

At this moment two of the lads dragged up the deer which 
Hermann had shot ; and one of the keepers, with his long killing- 
knife in hand, proceeded to disembowel the animals, previous to 
their being carried home. The rest of the party seated them- 
selves on the driest spot they could find, and somebody produced 
a couple of chopins of white-wine, which were forthwith handed 
round. 

But what of the count ? They had all been so eager to com- 
pliment Will on his good fortune, that no one had noticed the 
Grafs uneasy loitering about the fatal spot where his murdered 
victim lay. 

Presently up came the boy. 

“Hermann Lowe, the Herr Graf wants to see you. He has 
shot a little fawn, but he won’t let me bring it.” 

Hermann rose up, with a flush of vexation over his face. He did 
not look at his companions, but he knew that they were smiling. 

“ Young idiot !” he said, when they were out of ear-shot, “ why 
didst thou come and say so before all the people ?” 

“The Herr Graf—” 

“ Der Teufel 1 Hast thou no head on thy shoulders ?” 

The count was mortally frightened to meet Hermann. He did 
not know in what manner to conduct himself : whether he should 
carelessly joke away the matter, or overawe his forester by the 
grandeur of his demeanor. 

“ I see,” said Hermann, when he came up ; “ the Herr Graf 
will not believe me that there is always time to look ; that when 
there is no time to look, one need not waste powder.” 

“ Bah ! stuff ! nonsense ! I tell you, when they are running 
like infernal hares, how am I to look at their size to a nicety ?” 

“ The fawns don’t run so quickly,” said Hermann, respectfully, 
but firmly. 

“Hermann Lowe,” said the count, hotly, “I suppose you’re 
my servant ?” 

“ I have that honor, Herr Graf.” 

“ Then you’ll please to shut up, that’s all, and get that wretch- 
ed little animal out of the road. Not run quickly ! D — n his 
impudence ! I’ll have to teach these German thieves some bet- 
ter manners,” 


THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF. 


141 


With which, and many more muttered grumblings, the count 
walked off, leaving Hermann to cover up the dead body of the 
fawn, and mark the place, so that it could be afterward taken 
away and securely buried. 

When the count came up to the rest of the party, he was 
smiling urbanely. 

“ Stolen a march upon me, eh ?” he said to Will. “ On my 
own ground, too. ’Gad, I’ll show you something before we’ve 
done. I hadn’t the ghost of a chance either time I shot ; and it 
was lucky I missed the second time, because I saw immediately 
afterward that it was a doe.” 

“ She had a fawn with her, hadn’t she ?” said Will. 

“ Yes,” replied the count, with a sharp glance all round the 
circle of faces. 

Hermann now came up, and chose two of the strongest lads 
to carry home the two deer. Each lad had one of the animals 
slung round his shoulders, while he grasped two of its thin legs 
in either hand, and allowed the neck, head, and horns of the buck 
to hang down in a picturesque fashion behind him. Will went 
privately up to one of the boys : 

“ You know Grete Halm ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ When you go down to the village, tell Grete to ask the Eng- 
lish lady to come back with you ; because, if she remains till 
mid-day, we may be gone too far from Schonstein. You under- 
stand ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“And you may go up to the Herr Graf’s house, and tell any 
one you may see to send up luncheon an hour earlier than was 
arranged. You understand ?” 

“ Ja, Herr.” 

And so the two lads went on their way ; and Hermann began 
to sketch out to his keepers the plan of the next drive. 


142 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 

It was, however, mid-day before G-rete Halm and Annie Brunei 
arrived; and as they entered the forest at the point where the 
shooting-party was now stationed, they found that the drive had 
already commenced. Will happening to be at the corner post, it 
devolved upon him to enjoin strict silence upon the new-comers 
— a command which Miss Brunei obeyed by sitting down on the 
trunk of a felled tree, and beginning to ask Will a series of ques- 
tions about his morning’s adventures. 

They were now in a clearance in the forest some forty yards 
broad, and on the other side of this strip of open ground ran a 
long dense mass of brushwood, lying still and silent in the lumi- 
nous, quivering heat. Will, Crete, and Annie Brunei were in the 
shadow of a patch of young firs, and between them and the 
dense brushwood extended the forty yards of clearance, with the 
strong sunlight beating down on the crimson and golden moss, 
and on the yellow stumps of the felled trees. The air was hot 
and moist, filled with the pungent resinous odor of the pine — a 
languid, delicious scented atmosphere, which made one prone to 
day-dreaming or sleep. 

Suddenly, without the rustle of a leaf, and long before any of 
the dogs had given tongue, there leaped out from the close brush- 
wood into the open sunlight a fine young buck, with his head 
and horns high in air. The warm light fell on his ruddy light- 
brown coat, and showed his shapely throat, his sinewy form, and 
tall thin legs, as he stood, irresolute and afraid, sniffing the air 
with his black nostrils, and watching with his full, large eyes. 
He saw nothing, however, of the people before him in the shad- 
ow of the firs; and for several seconds he remained motionless, 
apparently the only living thing in the dead silence of the place. 
Then the bark of a dog was heard behind him : he cantered a 
few steps farther on, caught sight of the little party as he passed, 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 


143 


and then, doubly nerved, was off like a bolt into the heart of the 
forest. 

“ But, really—” said Will. 

“ Now, don’t make me angry with you,” said Annie, releasing 
his right arm, which she had tightly held for three minutes. “ I 
should never have forgiven you if you had shot that poor creat- 
ure, who looked so timid and handsome — ” 

“ I should have given him the chance of running.” 

u But you would have killed him. Didn’t I see the two you 
sent home, and their pitiful glazed eyes ?” 

“ Then you have come out to stop our shooting altogether, I 
suppose ?” said Will, with a laugh, though he was much more 
vexed than he chose to show. 

But he had his revenge. He had scarcely spoken when a 
buck, followed by two does, came out of the brushwood some 
distance farther down, the buck springing lightly and buoyantly 
over the soft moss, the does running more warily in his wake. 
Before Annie Brunei could do anything beyond utter a short cry, 
the contents of Will’s right barrel had caught the buck on his 
shoulder. He rolled over, struggled to his feet again, and then, 
with a last effort, made a few stumbling steps, and sunk unseen 
among the ferns. Will turned, with a smile, to Miss Brunei. 
She had covered her face with her hands. Grete, on the other 
hand, was in a wonderful state of delight. 

“You killed him, Herr, I know you did. I saw him fall ; and 
how handsome he was! and his horns, too, they are large; how 
pleased you will be to have them ! My father will get them 
mounted for you, if you like ; and if you would have the deer’s 
feet for pegs, that can be done. Oh, I wish the drive was over, 
that I might go to see him !” 

The drive was very nearly over, for the dogs were heard in the 
immediate neighborhood — particularly the low sonorous baying 
Df Rudolph, who had escaped from the leash, and was tearing 
backward and forward through the wood, with foam-flakes lying 
along his glistening brown coat. But all at once the baying of 
Rudolph was turned into a terrific yell, subsiding into a howl ; 
and at the same moment the report of a gun was heard at some 
distance farther along. Immediately afterward Will caught sight 
of a doe disappearing through the trees behind him, and from the 
way it ran he judged that it had a broken leg; while down in 


144 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


front of them came Rudolph, going at full speed, with his tail 
between his legs, and the front of his mouth covered with blood. 
The next thing seen was Count Schonstein, who came running to 
Will in a wonderful state of excitement. 

“ I’ve shot him ! — I’ve shot him !” he cried, “ but we must go 
after him.” 

“ Is it Rudolph you mean ?” said Will. 

“ A buck — a splendid buck — ” 

“ Well, don’t point your gun in my face.” 

“It’s on half-cock.” 

“ It isn’t ; and I don’t like the muzzle of a gun staring at me.” 

“ Will that do ?” cried the count, in vexation, dropping the gun 
on the ferns. “Do come and help me to catch him — ” 

“ Catch a deer ! Listen, Miss Brunei.” 

But the count was off in the direction the wounded doe had 
taken. 

The beaters now made their appearance through the brush- 
wood, and Hermann’s horn soon brought the keepers to the ren- 
dezvous. Will explained to Hermann that the Graf had gone in 
pursuit of a doe with a broken leg. 

“ Has he Rudolph with him ?” 

“No; I believe he shot Rudolph at the same time that he 
broke the hind-leg of the doe.” 

“ Shot Rudolph !” said Hermann ; and then he turned to the 
keepers: “Where is Rudolph? Who has seen Rudolph? Who 
allowed Rudolph to escape ?” 

The only answer he could get was from a messenger, who came 
up to say that luncheon had arrived, and wished to know where 
the Herr Graf wanted it placed. This messenger gave Hermann 
a graphic description of his having seen Rudolph flying in the di- 
rection of Schonstein in a state of utter demoralization. Where- 
with Hermann sat himself down on the stump of a tree, and said, 
resignedly, 

“ Spiegelmann, take one of the dogs after the wounded doe, 
and send back the Herr Graf. As for you, Fritz, ask the lady 
where luncheon is to be placed.” 

By the time Count Schonstein and Spiegelmann returned, the 
latter carrying on his shoulder the doe that the count had shot, 
luncheon had been laid out by the servants ; and round the large 
white cloth were placed a series of travelling-rugs and other ap- 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 


145 


pliances for smoothing down the roughnesses of fern, and stone- 
berry, and moss. The keepers, Hermann, and the young school- 
master were seated some little distance off, in picturesque groups, 
surrounding the dead game, which consisted of two bucks, the 
count’s doe, a fox shot by Gersbach, and a hare shot by some one 
else. The men had also their luncheon with them — apples, brown 
bread, a piece of smoked ham, and a bottle or two of white-wine. 
All the incidents of the drive had now to be recapitulated ; and 
there ensued a perfect Babel of guttural Sehwarzwald German. 

The count had ordered out a very nice luncheon indeed ; and 
so pleased was he with his success in having shot something, that 
he called one of the boys and gave him two bottles of Cham- 
pagne, a drinking-cup, and a lump of ice to take over to the keep- 
ers. Indeed, he would have given Hermann and the school-mas- 
ter an invitation to sit down at the white cloth, only he wished 
to postpone that explanation about Rudolph until Annie Brunei 
and Will were out of the way. As for Grete Halm, she equally 
dreaded the thought of sitting with the count’s party, and of hav- 
ing to go alone among the men and boys opposite ; and it was 
only by much coaxing and ordering that she was made to sit down 
by Miss Brunei, and submit to have the count himself carve for 
her, and offer her wine in a beautiful little silver cup. 

“ Siisse an die Siissen,” said he, gallantly, as he poured out the 
Champagne ; and Grete’s soft black eyes looked puzzled. 

“ Look at the boy in the red blouse,” said Annie Brunei, “ lying 
beside the two deer. I believe the count has got the whole scene 
made up in imitation of a hunting - picture, and that the boy 
knows well enough how fine his brown face and red smock-frock 
are in the sunlight. Then see how that deer’s head lies back, pre- 
cisely as if it were in a lithograph ; and the streaks of sunlight 
falling across the green dress of the keepers and the stretched-out 
dogs — and Hermann, there, cutting an apple with a dagger, his 
hair all matted with perspiration — the school-master sitting on 
the trunk of the tree, looking vaguely at the fox before him — ” 

“ Wondering,” observed Will, “ what sort of chemical change 
has occurred within the last half-hour, or why life should go out 
of an organism when lead goes in.” 

“ That is a German picture, and here are we making a French 
picture ; only that Grete is such a thorough Black-Forester, with 
her bodice, and white sleeves, and head-dress.” 


146 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


The count was intensely flattered and pleased by her admira^ 
tion of the impromptu pictures. He had been striving hard to 
interest and amuse her — most of all had he tried to charm her 
with the delights which he held at his own command; and here 
were the very sunlight, and the colors of the forest, and the shape 
of deers’ necks aiding him ! 

“You don’t see the like of that in England, do you?” he said, 
with his mouth full of cold chicken. “ I hope, Miss Brunei, you 
and Mrs. Christmas will make your stay with us as long as ever 
you can.” 

“ I should be very glad,” she said ; “ but I must see what Lady 
Jane says in a day or two — whether she finds herself getting bet- 
ter. If she should prefer the cooler air of mountain scenery, we 
may go on to Switzerland.” 

“ But don’t you dread the idea of travelling alone — looking 
after your own luggage, and what not ?” asked the count, with his 
mouth, this time, full of some other animal’s tongue. 

“It was not entirely on a pleasure ^excursion we came,” she 
said, quietly. 

“ And then,” said Will, “ you can get plenty of cool mountain 
air in the Black Forest. You can go and live comfortably on the 
top of the Feldberg, about five thousand feet high, with a dozen 
mountains all round you over four thousand feet. In the mean 
time, don’t trouble yourself with thoughts of change ; but let 
me give you some of this jelly. You are very fond of sweets, I 
know.” 

“Iam. You have been watching me.” 

He had been watching her too much, he thought. The intense 
curiosity with which he had regarded the singular change in the 
girl’s nature so soon as she left the stage, with the study of her 
pretty, superficial carelessness, her frank, audacious manner, and 
her quaint, maternal, matter-of-fact attitude towards himself, had 
wrought its inevitable work ; and at the very moment when she 
Was thinking that Mr. Anerley took a friendly pleasure in her so- 
ciety, he was longing to get away from it as from a torture too 
heavy to be borne — longing to get away, and unable to go. He 
might easily have avoided her on this very day, for example, by 
pleading business occupations ; instead, he had looked with impa- 
tience for her arrival all the morning and forenoon. 

And if he had any intellectual pleasure in studying the curious 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 


147 


shades of the young actress’s character, it was well that he im- 
proved his time ; for this was the last day pn which she should 
ever appear to him that enigmatical compound of a childlike gay- 
ety and mimicry, with a matronly air which was quite as amus- 
ingly unnatural. From this period henceforth, the reader who 
takes the trouble to follow Annie Brunei’s history will find her a 
changed woman, drawing nearer to that beautiful ideal which one 
who knew her mother would have expected to find in Annie Na- 
pier’s only child. 

At present she was chiefly concerned with the various sweets 
which Count Schonstein’s cook had sent, and also in trying the 
effect of squeezing the juice of different kinds of fruit into the 
iced Champagne which she sipped from time to time. She came 
to the conclusion that sliced apple added to Champagne and iced 
water greatly improved its flavor; and she appealed to Grete 
Halm, who had tried all her different specifics, the two drinking 
out of the same glass. Grete began to fancy that English la- 
dies, though they were very beautiful, and had magnificent hair, 
were little better than children, to amuse themselves with such 
nonsense. 

“I see that Hermann is getting dreadfully impatient,” said 
Miss Brunei at last ; “ let us go.” 

“ Pardon, mademoiselle,” said Will. “ Let us have an under- 
standing first.” 

She laughed a bright and merry laugh that puzzled the count 
extremely. 

“ Was gibt’s, Grete ?” said he. 

Grete began to explain, with a demure smile, how the Fraulein 
had held the Herr’s arm when a buck was going past ; but the 
count soon lost the thread of the story, and had to beg Will for 
a translation. 

“ I really can’t bear to see any one else shoot when I am look- 
ing on,” said Miss Brunei. “ But if I were myself shooting, I 
dare say I shouldn’t care.” 

“ Come, then,” said Will, “ will you take my gun during the 
next drive ? I will teach you how to hold it and fire — ” 

“ I know that already,” she said. It was not the first time she 
had fired a gun — on the stage. 

“ And I will fix the gun so that you need have no trouble.” 

“ Agreed,” she said ; while Grete, who was about to remain be- 


148 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


hind to assist in packing up the luncheon things, assured her that 
the holding of the gun was quite easy, and that she would be sure 
to kill a splendid deer. 

They had to walk nearly half a mile before they came to the 
next beat ; and by that time they had arrived at a sort of broad 
ravine, or hollow, the hill leading down to which was covered with 
tall, branchless pines. Down in the valley commenced a tract 
of young trees and brushwood, which was supposed to be full of 
deer. While the beaters were drawing a circle round this tract 
of brushwood, Hermann posted the guns, and courteously gave 
Will the Hauptplatz, understanding that the young lady was 
about to try her luck. At this point there was a mass of earth 
and roots which had been torn up by the falling of a pine — a lit- 
tle embankment some five feet high, over which one could easily 
command the whole line of brushwood lying in front This was 
the spot where Will posted Annie Brunei. He placed the barrel 
of the gun on the edge of this natural rampart, and then showed 
her how, whenever she saw a deer spring out into the sunlight 
down below in the valley, she was noiselessly to point the gun, 
keep the stock well against her shoulder, and fire. 

“ Only take care,” said he, “ that it isn’t a dog or a boy that 
comes out of the bushes.” 

“ Wliat if I shoot you ?” she said. 

“You can’t shoot me, any more than you can shoot yourself. 
I shall go up the hill a bit to overlook you ; and if it should be 
a dog, I’ll shout out before you murder him.” 

Here the long, low, steady call of Spiegelmann’s horn was 
heard, with Hermann’s reply. 

“ When the next horn calls, you may begin to look out. Hold 
out your hand.” 

She held out her right hand, wonderingly, and showed him the 
small white fingers. 

“ It is quite steady ; but your heart beats.” 

“ It generally does,” she said, with a smile. “ It is a weakness, 
I know, but — ” 

Here the fine anticipatory flourish of the keeper’s bugle again 
came echoing through the trees. Will gave over the gun to her, 
told her to take time and not be afrai 1, and then retired some- 
what farther up the hill. He ensconced himself behind a tall 
gray pine, whence, without being seen, he could command a view 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 


149 


of the entire length of brushwood, and of Miss Brunei in her 
place of concealment. 

“ If she only remains cool,” he thought, “ she is certain to be 
successful.” 

Once only she looked round and up the hill towards him, and 
there was a sort of constrained smile about her lips. 

“I am afraid she is getting frightened,” he thought now. 

The intense sultry silence of the place certainly heightened her 
nervous expectation, for she could distinctly hear her heart thump- 
ing against her side. Expectancy became a positive pain — an ag- 
ony that seemed to be choking her ; but never for a moment did 
she think of abandoning her post. 

Meanwhile Will’s experienced eye failed to detect the least 
motion among the bushes, nor could he hear the faintest noise 
from the dogs. Yet Hermann had told him that this was one of 
the best beats in the neighborhood ; and so he patiently waited, 
knowing that it was only a matter of time. 

At length one of the dogs was heard to bellow forth his joy- 
ous discovery. Will’s breath began to come and go more quick- 
ly, in his intense anxiety that his pupil should distinguish herself 
at the approaching crisis. Then it seemed to him that at some 
distance off he saw one or two of the young firs tremble, when 
there was not a breath of wind to stir them. 

He watched these trees and the bushes adjoining intently, but 
they were again quite motionless ; the dog, too, only barked at 
intervals. All at once, however, he saw, coming down a lane in 
the brushwood, two branched yellow tips, which paused and re- 
mained stationary, with only a single bush between them and the 
open space fronting Miss Brunei. They were the horns of a deer 
which now stood there, uncertain by which way to fly from the 
dogs behind him. 

“ If she could only catch sight of these horns,” he said to him- 
self, “ and understand to fire through the bush, she would kill him 
to a certainty.” 

Evidently, however, she did not see the horns ; perhaps her po- 
sition prevented her. So, with his own heart beating rapidly 
now, Will waited for the moment when the dogs would drive the 
deer out into the clear sunlight, immediately underneath the muz- 
zle of her gun. 

A sharp bark from one of the beagles did it. Will saw the 


150 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


light spring of the deer out into the open, and the same glance 
told him that Annie Brunei had shrunk back with a light cry, 
and that the gun, balanced for a moment on the edge of the mass 
of roots, w r as about to fall on the ground. 

At the same moment he received an astounding blow on the 
side that nearly knocked him over ; and his first instinct was that 
of an Englishman — to utter an oath, clench his fist, and turn 
round to find a face to strike at. But before the instinct had 
shaped itself into either thought or action, the sudden spasm 
passed into a sort of giddiness; he fancied the pine-tree before 
him wavered, put out his hand to guard himself, and then fell, 
with a loud noise in his ears. 

When Miss Brunei saw the gun tumble on the ground and 
heard the report, she clasped her hands over her eyes in a vague 
instantaneous horror of any possible result. The next moment 
she looked up, and there was a black mass lying on the ground be- 
hind the tall tree. Her only thought was that he lay dead there 
as she ran to him, and knelt down by him, and caught him round 
the neck. White-lipped, trembling in every limb, and quite uncon- 
scious of what she did, she put her head down to his and spoke to 
him. There were three words that she uttered in that moment 
of delirious pity, and self-reproach, and agony, which it was as 
well he did not hear ; but uttered they were, never to be recalled. 

When he came to himself, he saw a white face bending over 
him, and had but a confused notion of what had occurred. With 
a vigorous effort, however, mental and physical, he pulled himself 
together and got into a sitting posture. 

“ I must have given you such a fright through my stupidity,” 
he said; but all the time he wondered to see a strange look in 
her eyes — a look he had never seen there before off the stage — as 
she knelt by him and held his hand in hers. She did not speak ; 
she only looked at him, with a vague, absent delight, as if she 
were listening to music. 

“ Poor creature !” he thought, “ she does not know how to say 
that she is sorry for having hurt me.” 

So he managed to get up a quite confident smile, and strug- 
gled to his feet, giving her his hand to raise her also. 

“ I suppose you thought you had killed me,” he said, with a 
laugh, “ but it was only the fright knocked me over. I am not 
hurt at all. Look here, the charge has lodged in the tree.” 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 


151 


He showed her a splinter or two knocked off the bark of the 
tree, and a few round holes where the buck-shot had lodged ; but 
at the same time he was conscious of a warm and moist sensation 
creeping down his side, and down his arm likewise. Further, he 
pretended not to see that there was a line of red blood trickling 
gently over his hand, and that her dress had already caught a 
couple of stains from the same source. 

“ What’s that ?” she said, with a terrified look, looking from 
her own hand, which was likewise stained, to his. “ It is blood 
— you have been hurt, and you won’t tell me. Don’t be so cruel,” 
she- added, piteously, “ but tell me what I am to do, for I know 
you are hurt. What shall I do ? Shall I run to Hermann ? 
Shall I go for the count ? There is no water about here — ” 

“ Sit down on those ferns — that’s what you must do,” said 
Will, “ and don’t distress yourself. I suppose one of the spent 
shot has scratched me, or something like that ; but it is of no im- 
portance, and you mustn’t say anything about it. When the 
drive is over, I shall walk home. If I had only a little — a little——” 
By this time he had sat down, and as he uttered the words, an- 
other giddiness came over him, and he would have fallen back 
had she not hastily caught him and supported him. 

“ It is the blood,” he said, angrily. “ One would think I 
couldn’t afford to lose as much as the scratch of a penknife would 
let. Will you allow me to take off my coat ? — and if you could 
tie a handkerchief tightly round my arm — ” 

“ Oh, why did you not ask me to do so before ?” she said, as she 
helped to uncover the limb that was by this time drenched in blood. 

“ Think of what the deer would have suffered, if you had hit 
him instead of me,” said Will, with a ghastly smile. “ He was a 
dozen yards nearer you. You seem to like long shots.” 

But there was a mute, pleading look in her eyes that seemed 
to appeal against his banter. She seemed to say to him by that 
dumb expression, “ You wrong me. You try to make us strangers 
by that assumed fun. You do it to cheer me ; but you make me 
a stranger to you, for you are not honest with me.” 

And somehow he read the meaning of her face ; and said to 
her, in a low voice, 

“ Shall I be frank with you ? This accident is likely to make 
us too close friends ; and it is better I should return to England, 
if you remain here.” 


152 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


For a moment their eyes met — on his side revealing a secret 
which she inwardly shuddered to read there ; on hers repeating 
only that mystic, unfathomable expression which he remembered 
to have seen when he awakened out of his dream. 

That was all of explanation that passed between them. She 
knew now his secret, and by the sudden light of the revelation 
she looked swiftly back over some recent occurrences, and saw 
the purport of them written in words of fire. Her eyes fell ; her 
own secret was safe ; but this new burden of consciousness was 
almost as difficult to bear. 

At this moment the count and Hermann came up, followed by 
the nearest keepers and beaters. 

“ There has been a slight accident,” said Will, briefly. “ Get 
some one to carry my gun, and I’ll walk back to Schonstein.” 

“If you would like to ride,” said Hermann — who, with the 
others, was quite deceived by Will’s manner — “ you can get Hans 
Halm’s wagen , that was waiting for the baskets and things. 
Spiegelmann will show you the way. You are not badly hurt?” 

“ Not at all ; not at all. Miss Brunei, will you continue with 
the party?” 

“ No,” she said, firmly ; “ I am going back to Schonstein.” 

“And I,” said the count. “I can’t allow you to go unattend- 
ed. I don’t care about any more shooting — ” 

“ Nonsense !” said Will (with an inward conviction that two 
minutes’ more talking would find him stretched on the ground) ; 
“go on with your sport, and I’ll come out to meet you in the 
evening.” 

Fortunately, when they reached the shaky old travelling -car- 
riage outside the forest, they found some wine, a good draught 
of which somewhat revived the wounded man. The hampers 
and other things were speedily thrown out, and, Spiegelmann 
having returned to the shooting-party, Will and Miss Brunei got 
into the vehicle and were driven homeward. 

Neither spoke a single word all the way. Once, and quite in- 
advertently, her hand touched his, and she drew it away. The 
next moment she looked into his face, and perhaps saw some 
slight shade of vexation there, for she immediately covered his 
stained fingers with her own. It was as though she said, “ I 
know your sad secret, but we may at least continue friends.” 


FLIGHT. 


153 


CHAPTER XIX. 

FLIGHT. 

It was a change indeed ! Life all at once became solemn and 
full of mystery to her — full of trouble, too, and perplexity. So 
soon as a messenger had been despatched to Donaueschingen for 
a surgeon who was skilled in the extraction of buck-shot, Annie 
Brunei went up to her own room, and sat down there alone. 
And she felt as if the air had grown thick around her, and was 
pressing on her ; she felt that the old audacious cheerfulness had 
gone from her, and that the passion and glow and terrible ear- 
nestness of her stage-life were invading this other life, which used 
to be full of a frivolous, careless happiness. 

Do the other animals become frightened and nervous when the 
love-making season comes suddenly upon them ? Does the lark, 
when her lover comes down from the sky and sings, “My dear 
soft-breasted little thing, will you be my wife ? will you come and 
build a nest with me, and let me bring you scraps of food when 
you are tired ?” — does she get into a state of great tremor, and 
fancy that the world has suddenly shifted its axis? We know 
how the least impressionable of men are overawed by this strange 
natural phenomenon. The old ridiculousness of love, its silliness 
and comic aspects, are immediately blotted out from their mind 
by the contemplation of the awful truth, the awful change that 
lies before them. They shrink from physiology as a species of 
blasphemy. They will not accept scientific explanation of their 
idealisms ; nor will they believe that any man has ever experienced 
the sensation they now experience. 

But the ordinary awakening of a man or woman to the con- 
sciousness of being in love was a very different thing from the 
sudden revelation which confronted the young actress, as she sat 
there and pondered, in a bewildered way, over the events of the 
past hour. To love this man was a crime; and its fatal conse- 
quences seemed to stretch on and on, and interweave themselves 
with her whole future life. How had she fallen into the snare ? 

7* 


154 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


And he was equally guilty ; for his eyes, more fully than his 
words, had in that supreme moment told her his tragic story. 

She thought of the violet -eyed Dove down in that Kentish 
vale. She thought of her, and mentally prayed for forgiveness. 

She had but one sad consolation in the matter — her secret was 
her own. There now remained for her but to leave Schonstein 
at once, and the morning’s events had paved the way for her de- 
cision. So she sent for Mrs. Christmas, and said to her, 

“Don’t you think a cooler air than what we have here would 
suit you better ?” 

The old woman scrutinized her face curiously. 

“What’s the matter with you, Miss Annie? You look as if 
you had just come off the stage, and were half bewildered by the 
part you had been playing !” 

“ I want an answer, Mrs. Christmas. But I may tell you that 
I ask because I wish to leave this place at once. You needn’t 
ask why ; but if it will not incommode you to travel, I should 
like to go away now. There is Switzerland, not a day’s jour- 
ney from here ; and there are some mountainous districts in this 
neighborhood — you may choose which you please — ” 

“ Only I must choose to go,” said the old woman, patting her 
cheek. “ That’s yourself all over, as you used to be in the days 
when you tyrannized over me, and would always have your own 
way about arranging your parts. Well, Miss Annie, I’m ready 
to go now, if you like — only Hermann promised to give me two 
of the most beautiful deer-skins to be got in the Black Forest — ” 

“ They can be sent after us.” 

The evening was drawing towards dusk when the count return- 
ed. He was greatly shocked on discovering that the accident 
Will had met with was much more serious than had been fancied, 
and that the surgeon only stared in astonishment when asked if 
his patient could come down-stairs to dinner. 

“A man who has lost so much blood,” said he, significantly, 
and speaking slowly, that the count might understand him, “ and 
who suffers from four or five gunshot wounds, is not likely to sit 
at table for a day or two.” 

Annie Brunei did not hear this conversation ; and as she still 
believed that Will had dnly been slightly hurt, and would be 
able to go about as usual, she informed the count at dinner of 
her intended departure. The Herr Graf looked from one to the 


FLIGHT. 


155 


other of his guests, without being able to utter a syllable. He 
had been congratulating himself on the brilliant success of this 
excursion, on the evident gratification experienced by Miss Bru- 
nei, on her expressed admiration for Schonstein and all its sur- 
roundings. This decision of hers quashed his dearest hopes. 

“You surely do not intend to leave us so soon?” he said. 
“ Mrs. Christmas, are you the traitor in the camp ?” 

Mrs. Christmas prudently forbore to reply. 

“ Think of leaving Mr. Anerley, after having knocked him over 
in that sportsman-like fashion !” exclaimed the count. “ He will 
think it very ungenerous of you.” 

“ I am extremely sorry,” she said, with a look of pained em- 
barrassment on her dark, beautiful face, “ but I hope he will for- 
give our going.” 

“He may, but I sha’n’t,” said the count. “However, if you 
will, you will. In any case, I hope I may be allowed to escort 
you towards your new resting-place.” 

“ We should be more cruel still,” said the young girl, “ if we 
took you away from your friend. Believe me, we shall want no 
assistance.” 

The tone with which she uttered the words was decisive. It 
said, “ You are very kind ; but we mean to go alone.” 

The count did not enjoy his dinner that evening. He fancied 
there was something wrong in the arrangement of things — some- 
thing incomprehensible, provoking, beyond the reach of his al- 
teration. When he persuaded Annie Brunei and her guardian to 
accept his escort as far as Schonstein, he fancied his skilful cal- 
culations had delivered her into his hand. Was there a creature 
on earth — especially a woman — who could fail to be smitten with 
a covetous desire for the possession of Schonstein ? During that 
moody meal, while he sat almost angrily silent, two suggestions 
occurred to him. 

Could she have failed to perceive that she might be mistress 
of Schonstein if she liked? The count confessed that he had 
not made any demonstration of affection to her, simply because 
he wished the natural effect of living at Schonstein to influence 
her first, and predispose her towards accepting his more openly 
avowed attentions. 

Or was it possible that she had discovered her true position, 
and learned for herself the wealth and rank to which she wa$ 


150 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


entitled ? But if she had made this discovery, he argued with 
himself, she would not have allowed herself to be the guest of a 
parvenu count; while he knew that she had received no letters 
since his arrival. 

Seizing the more probable alternative, he bitterly regretted his 
not having made it more clear to her that a handsome fortune 
awaited her acceptance. In the mean time these regrets had the 
effect of making the dinner a somewhat dull affair ; and it was 
rather gruffly that he consented, after dinner, to go round to the 
inn in order to inquire of Hans Halm the various routes to Switz- 
erland. 

As they were going out, she said, 

“ Will you send word to Mr. Anerley that we shall only be ab- 
sent for a short time, and that I hope he may be able to come 
down and see us when we return ?” 

“ The surgeon is still with him,” said the count. “ I shall go 
up and see him myself when we come back.” 

It was a clear starlight night; the waning moon had not yet 
risen. As they neared the few houses of Schonstein, and saw the 
orange lights gleaming through the dusk, Mrs. Christmas caught 
her companion’s arm. 

They were by the side of the garden adjoining the inn, and 
from a summer-house, which was half hidden among apple and 
plum trees, there came the sweet and tender singing of two young 
girls — a clear and high but somewhat undeveloped soprano, and 
a rich, full, mellow contralto. The three stood for a moment to 
listen, and the singers in the darkness proceeded to another song 
— the old Volksweise that Grete and Hermann had been wont to 
sing: 

“ Im schonsten Wiesengrunde 
1st meiner Heimath Haus, 

Da zog ich manche Stunde, 

In’s Thai hinaus : 

Dich, mein stilles Thai, griiss’ ich tausend Mai ! 

Da zog ich manche Stunde, in’s Thai hinaus.” 

“It is Grete who sings, and I want to see her,” said Annie 
Brunei, stepping softly into the garden, and advancing to the 
summer-house. 

Grete was quite alone with her companion — a young girl who, 
Miss Brunei could see even in that partial darkness, was very 


FLIGHT. 


157 


pretty, and of a type much more common in the north of Baden 
and Bavaria than in the Schwarzwald. She was not over twelve 
years of age ; but she had the soft grave eyes, the high forehead, 
the flaxen hair, and general calm demeanor which characterize 
the intellectual South German. She was Grete’s confidante and 
companion ; and together, whenever they got a chance, they 
were accustomed to steal away to this summer-house, and sing 
those concerted melodies which the children of the Black Forest 
drink in with their mothers’ milk. 

Grete gave a little cry of surprise when she saw the dark form 
of the young English lady appear; and then her thought was 
that something had gone wrong with the gentleman who was 
wounded. 

“I want you, Grete, for a moment,” said Annie Brunei, in 
French, to her. 

“Ah, mademoiselle,” she said, dislocating her French in sudden 
compassion ; “ ce n’est pas que Monsieur Anerley se sent encore 
malade? L’homme qui mon pere envoyait chercher le medecin 
me dit qu’il va meilleur — ” 

“ Don’t disquiet yourself, Grete,” said Miss Brunei. “ Mr. An- 
erley is not severely hurt. I wanted to ask you if you would 
come with me to Switzerland.” 

“ To Switzerland !” said Grete ; and her companion’s soft eyes 
looked up with a mystic wonder in them. 

“Would you like to go?” 

“ Yes, mademoiselle, very much ; but I have promised to go 
to see my cousin Aenchen Baumer, at the Feldberg, in a day or 
two.” 

“ Come in-doors, and let us hear what your father says. Your 
friend will forgive me for a few minutes.” 

They all then left the garden and went round to the front of 
the inn. They found the count and Mrs. Christmas standing 
outside, and listening to the prodigious singing-bout which was 
being held within by the keepers and the beaters, the chorus 
following each verse of the various hunting - songs being accom- 
panied by the measured beating of hands and feet on the tables 
and wooden floor. 

“ If mademoiselle goes forward to the window,” said the little 
grave German girl with the yellow hair, “ she will hear better, 
and Herr Spiegelmann is about to sing ‘ Der Weisse Hirsch.’ ” 


158 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


They all went forward to one of the many small windows, and 
looked in. The men were sitting in a picturesque undress round 
the table, their long-bowled china pipes in their fingers or mouth, 
and chopins of pale -yellow wine before them. Grete’s father 
was standing by, laughing and joking with them, the old grand- 
mother from time to time replenishing the tall transparent bot- 
tles. They had all been singing the elaborate chorus to the 
hunting-song, “ Im Wald und auf der Haide” — all except the 
ancient Spiegelmann, who sat solemnly over his pipe -tube, and 
winked his small black eyes occasionally, as if trying to shut in 
the internal pleasure the rattling melody gave him. His large 
black mustache caught the tobacco-smoke that issued from his 
lips ; and his wrinkled, weather-tanned face, like the other sun- 
burnt faces around, caught a bronzed glow from the solitary 
candle before him. 

“The Spiegelmann missed a buck in the second drive,” said 
one. “ He will pay the forfeit of a song.” 

“ I was driving, not shooting, the roe,” growled the Spiegel- 
mann, though he was not displeased to be asked to sing. 

All at once, before any of his comrades were prepared, the 
venerable keeper, blinking fiercely, began to sing, in a low, queru- 
lous, plaintive voice, the first stanza of a well-known ballad, which 
ran somewhat in this fashion : 

“ ’Twas into the forest three sportsmen went, 

On shooting the white deer they were bent.” 

Suddenly, and while Miss Brunei fancied that the old man was 
singing a pathetic song of his youth, there rung out a great 
hoarse chorus from a dozen bass voices — the time struck by a 
couple of dozen horny hands on the table : 

“ Husch, husch ! bang, bang ! trara !” 

Then Spiegelmann, gravely and plaintively as before, took up the 
thread of the wondrous story : 

“ They laid themselves down beneath a fir-tree, 

And a wonderful dream then dreamed the three, 

{All.) Husch, husch ! bang, bang ! trara !” 

Here a tall Italian -looking keeper, who hailed from the Tyrol, 
and who was sitting next to Spiegelmann, sung forth the experi- 
ences of the first dreamer : 


FLIGHT. 


“ I dreamed that as I went beating the bush 
There ran out before me the deer — husch, husch ! 

His neighbor, Bagel, who had once been complimented by Kaiser 
Francis of Austria, and was never done with the story, personated 
the second dreamer : 


O- 

l,! ” 

ted bv Kaiser*'*^ 


“ And as from the yelp of the beagle he sprang, 

I riddled his hide for him there — bang, bang !” 


The third from Spiegelmann; a short, stout litt^mai 
Falz, who had once been a clock-maker in Whitectapel, 
next dreamer : 



.called 
s the 


“ So soon as the deer on the ground I saw, 
I merriiy sounded my horn — trara !” 


The burden of the tale now returned to Spiegelmann, who thus 
finished it, and pointed the moral : 

“ Lo ! as they lay there and chatted, these three, 

Swiftly the wild deer ran past the tree : 

And ere the three huntsmen had seen him aright, 

O’er hill and o’er valley he’d vanished from sight ! 

{All.) Husch, husch ! bang, bang ! trara ! 

Husch, husch ! bang, bang ! trara 1” 

“ I declare,” said little Mrs. Christmas, standing on tiptoe, to 
peep in at the window on the bronzed faces, and the dim candle, 
and the long narrow tables in the low-roofed room, “ it is quite 
like a scene in a play, though they don’t sing very well.” 

“ They keep capital time,” said the count, who looked upon 
them as so many performing animals belonging to himself. 

“Voulez-vous entrer, mademoiselle?” said Grete, hesitatingly. 
“ La fumee — j’en suis bien fachee — ” 

She went into the inn, nevertheless ; and Hans Halm was sum- 
moned to give his opinion about the various roads leading down 
to Basle or Schaffhausen. Meanwhile, the keepers had sent a 
polite message, through Margarethe, to the young English lady, 
hoping that she enjoyed the day’s sport; that her companion’s 
accident had not been serious; and that she would not be an- 
noyed to hear one or tw& of the old Schwarzwald songs. 

It was now for the wit time that Annie learned the true ex- 
tent of the injury which Will had suffered ; and this had the ef- 
fect of immediately altering her resolutions. It was with a dan- 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 



rob of the heart that she was told how he might not 
his bed for days, or even weeks, so prostrated was he by 
oss of blood; and anxious, terribly anxious, as she was to get 
free from the place, she could not bear the thought of stealing 
away, and leaving him to the unknown chances of the future. 

The count had almost begun to fancy that it was the horror of 
the accident that she had caused which was driving her away 
from t he" to o painful witnessing of its results; but she now said 
not leave until Will was entirely out of danger, 
[understand her, or her motives; above all, he was 
unwonted earnestness of her expression — its new 
life and intensity. He knew nothing of the fire at the heart 
which kept that slumbering light in the dark eyes. 

“And in a few days, Grete, you go to the Feldberg?” she 
asked. 

“ Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“ Is there an inn there at which one can stay ?” 

“There is, mademoiselle — right on the top of the mountain, 
if you choose to go so high. My cousin Aenchen lives down in 
the valley.” 

“ I hope, Miss Brunei,” said the count, anxiously, “ you won’t 
think of leaving Schonstein so long as you remain in this dis- 
trict. The accident which has happened, I know, may rob the 
neighborhood of some of its attractions ; but what better will the 
Feldberg be ?” 

She paid no attention to him. She was only determined not 
to see Will Anerley again ; and yet there was in her heart a 
vague desire to be near him — to be under the same daylight, to 
look, on the same scenes, and hear the same quaint, strange talk 
^hat he listened to. 

. * “ When must you go to see your cousin ?” she asked. 

“Very shortly,” said Grete. “Aenchen Baumer goes to a 
convent in Freiburg, where she will learn English, and fine needle- 
work, and many things. She is a good friend of mine, and a 
companion once ; and I want to see her before she goes.” 

“If you wait a few days, we shall go to the Feldberg to- 
gether.” 

Grete clasped her hands with delight 

“ And will madame, your mamma, go also ?” she asked, rejoiced 
to think she had not the journey to make alone. 


FLIGHT. 


161 


“ Yes ; but the lady is not my mamma, Grete. She died when 
I was scarcely your age ; and this is my second mother, who has 
been with me ever since.” 

All the next day she waited, lingering about, and unable to do 
anything in her feverish anxiety and impatience. She was not 
afraid to see him. She had suddenly been awakened to a sweet 
and new consciousness of strength — a fulness of life and will 
which she knew would sustain her in any emergency. She had 
no fear whatever, so far as she herself was concerned. But she 
dreaded the possible effect of their meeting again in these too 
seductive circumstances; she dreaded it, while she thought of 
Dove. Already there lay over her the shadow of the wrong 
done to the bright young English girl whose pretty ways and 
violet eyes she so well remembered — a wrong inscrutable, not 
to be condoned or forgotten. Whose was the fault? She only 
knew that she dared no longer stay there after having once read 
Will’s secret in that quick mutual glance in the forest. 

Another day passed, and yet another : the torment was becom- 
ing unbearable. She could not leave the place while danger yet 
hung over him ; on the other hand, her delay was provoking the 
chances of that very meeting which she had resolved should not 
take place. Many a time she thought she could go away happy 
and content if only she might shake hands with him and look 
once in his eyes ; then there came a misty remembrance of Dove’s 
face floating before her, and the young girl seemed to regard her 
reproachfully. 

She began to think that a little far-off glimpse of him would 
do ; moderating her desires, she grew to long for that as the one 
supreme boon, bearing which with her she could go away with a 
glad heart. Only a glimpse of him to see how he looked, to bid 
a mute farewell to him, herself unseen. 

“ Our patient is much better this morning,” said the count to 
her, on the fourth day. “Won’t you come up -stairs and see 
him?” 

“ No,” she said, softly, looking down. 

She was more incomprehensible to him than ever. Formerly 
she seemed to be quite familiar with him ; she was happy and 
careless in his presence; she responded to his nonsense with non- 
sense of her own. Now she seemed to have been translated to 
another sphere. He was no longer jovial and jocular with her. 


102 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


He watched and studied the Madonna-like calm of the clear dark 
face, until he felt a sort of awe stealing over him ; the intense 
dark life of her eyes was a mystery to him. 

In these few days she began to wonder if she were not rapidly 
• growing old : it seemed to her that everything around her was 
becoming so serious and so sad. 

“ And if I do look old, who will care ?” she said to herself, 
bitterly. 

The count, on the other hand, fancied she had never been so 
beautiful ; and, as he looked on her, he tried to gladden his heart 
by the thought that he was not a mercenary man. To prove to 
her and himself that he was not, he swore a mental oath that he 
would be rejoiced to see her a beggar, that so he might lift her 
up to his high estate. Indeed, so mad was the man at the time 
— so much beside himself was he — that he was ready to forswear 
the only aim of his life, and would have married Annie Brunei 
only too willingly, had it been proved to him that she was the 
daughter of a gypsy. 

“ Another day’s rest is all that the doctor has prescribed,” said 
the count. “ I hope to see our friend down to breakfast to-mor- 
row morning.” 

“ Is he so much better ?” she asked. 

She inquired in so earnest a tone that he fancied her anxiety 
was to know if the damage she had done was nearly mended, and 
so he said : 

“Better? He is quite better now. I think he might come 
down and see us this morning, unless you would prefer paying 
him a visit.” 

Immediately after breakfast Miss Brunei went over to the inn, 
and there she found Hans Halm and his daughter. 

“ Grete,” she said, “ could you go to the Feldberg to-day?” 

“ Yes,” said Grete. 

“ Could you be ready to start by twelve o’clock ?” 

“My father’s wagen has gone to Donaueschingen, mademoi- 
selle,” she said. 

“ The count will lend us a carriage, and you must come with 
me.” 

The matter having been arranged, she returned to the count, 
and told him of her intention, firmly and quietly. A week pre- 
vious he would have laughed, and pooh-poohed the notion ; now 


FLIGHT. 


163 


he was excessively courteous, and, though he regretted her de^ 
cision, he would do everything in his power, etc. 

“ Will you let Hermann come with us as far as the Feldberg?” 

“I devote Hermann entirely to your service for a week — a 
month — as long as you choose,” said the count. 

English Polly was got up from the kitchen — where she had 
established a species of freemasonry between herself and the 
German servants — to assist in the packing; and while she and 
Mrs. Christmas were so engaged, Annie Brunei sat down and 
wrote these lines on a slip of paper : 

“I am glad to hear you are better. You wished us not to 
meet again, and as it is easier for me to go than you, I leave here 
in an hour. You will forgive me for having caused you so much 
pain. Good-bye. A. B.” 

She put the paper in an envelope, and took it down to the 
count. 

“ I have written a note to Mr. Anerley, explaining our going 
away so abruptly. Will you please send it to him ?” 

“ I will take it to him myself,” said the count, and he took it. 

A few minutes afterward, when the count returned, she was 
seated at the window, looking out with vague, absent eyes on the 
great undulations of the black-green forest, on the soft sunlight 
that lay upon the hills along the horizon, and on the little nook 
of Schonstein, with the brown houses, the white church, and the 
large inn. She started slightly as he entered. He held another 
envelope in his hand. 

“ I have brought a reply,” he said, “ but a man does not write 
much with his left hand, in bed.” 

On a corner of the sheet of paper she had sent, there were 
written these words, “ I thank you heartily. God bless you ! — 
W. A.” And her only thought as she read them was, “ Not even 
in England — not even in England.” 

Grete appeared, blushing in her elaborate finery. Her violet 
bodice was resplendent, with its broad velvet collar embroidered 
with gold; her snow-white sleeves were full-blown and crimp; 
and her hair was braided, and hung down in two long tails from 
underneath the imposing black head-dress, with its ornamentation 
of gold beads. Grete had manufactured another of those embroid- 


164 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


ered miracles, which she was now carrying in her trunk to Aen- 
chen Baumer. It was with a little sob of half-hysteric delight 
that she drove out of the stone court-yard, and realized the stu- 
pendous fact that Hermann Lowe was to accompany them to the 
Feldberg. 

Mrs. Christmas, studying the strange expression of her adopted 
daughter’s face, thought she was becoming remarkably like the 
Annie Napier whom she knew long ago. 

“ May she have a very different fate !” said the old woman to 
herself, as she thought of the weary and solitary life-struggle, the 
self-denial, the heroic fortitude of those by-gone and bitter days. 


CHAPTER XX. 

' HOMEWARD. -/■ 

“If mademoiselle chooses,” said Grete, “we can walk along 
the side of the Titi See, and allow the carriage to go on by itself. 
The road is very pretty from the lake onward to the Feldberg.” 

Mademoiselle was in that frame of mind when any change in- 
volving action was a delicious relief, and she gladly embraced the 
proposal. 

“ If the old lady prefers to drive all the way,” said Grete, with 
a touch of maidenly pride, “ Hermann ought to accompany her. 
I can find the way for us two, mademoiselle.” 

That also was agreed to, the distance being too great for Mrs. 
Christmas to walk. And so Aftnie Brunei and Grete Halm set 
out upon the winding path, or rather track, which runs along the 
shore of the beautiful Titi See — here skirting tfie' edge of the 
rocky promontories which jut out into the still blue lake, there 
cutting through the dense coppices lying in the sub shine along 
the foot of the hills, or again passing some deep-roofed and sleepy 
farm-house, with its small stone chapel standing in the yard. 
Grete reverentially crossed herself every time they passed one of 
these numerous private chapels; and her companion, peeping in 
through the wooden bars, generally saw within the sanctuary a 
large framed lithograph of the Virgin Mary in red and blue, with 
a vast number of little gilt trinkets and other pious offerings lying 
on the altar. Some of these chapels had forms within capable of 


HOMEWARD. 


165 


accommodating a congregation of from twelve to twenty persons. 
One or two people had built no chapel at all, but had hollowed 
out a niche in the wall surrounding their garden, and had placed 
therein a wooden crucifix, more or less painted, exhibiting the de- 
tails of the Crucifixion with mediaeval exactitude. And Grete, 
being a good girl, crossed herself as she saw these humble memo- 
rials of a devout faith. 

“ Why did you send Hermann away, Grete ?” said Annie Bru- 
nei, as they walked along. 

“ Because, mademoiselle, I wished him to know that I could do 
without him,” said Grete Halm. 

“You are very fond of him, are you not ?” 

“ Yes, mademoiselle, but — ” 

“ And he of you ?” 

“ He is very fond of me, I know,” said Grete, simply. 

“ I don’t wonder at it ; but have you ever asked yourself why 
he is fond of you ?” 

“Why, mademoiselle? Because — because I am a girl and he 
is a man, and he wants to be married.” 

Annie Brunei laughed ; it was the first smile her companion 
had seen on her face for some days. 

“But suppose he did not want to be married — suppose he 
could not be married to you — would he be fond of you ? Or sup- 
pose you knew, Grete, that he was to marry some one else, what 
would you do ?” 

“ I should do nothing, mademoiselle ; I should be miserable.” 

“You would not cease to love him?” 

“ If I could, yes ; if not — ” 

“ If not, you would only be miserable.” 

The tone in which the words were uttered caused Grete to look 
up suddenly in her companion’s face. She saw nothing there but 
the inwardly reflecting eyes, the beautiful, pale, dark complexion, 
and the placid sweetness of the unkissed lips. 

“ In England, Grete, I am an actress. They say that an actress 
must never reflect, that she lives for immediate gratification, that 
she educates impulses, and that she cannot pause, and regard her 
position, and criticise herself. If I cease to feel any pleasure in 
immediate gratifications, if I feel ill at ease and dissatisfied with 
myself, and fancy that the stage would no longer give me any 
pleasure, must I cease to be an actress ?” 


166 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


v Is mademoiselle in earnest ?” 

Grete Halm could not believe that her companion was an ac- 
tress. Had she ever seen, even in Carlsruhe itself, an actress with 
such a noble air, with such a face, and such a manner? 

“ I am in earnest, Grete. I have been an actress all my life ; I 
feel as if I were one no longer.” 

“What has changed you, mademoiselle, may I be permitted 
to ask ?” 

“ I do not know myself, Grete. But I have turned an old 
woman since I came to the Black Forest ; and I shall go back to 
England with a sort of fear, as if I had never been there before.” 

Since she came to the Black Forest. For a moment a suspicion 
crossed Grete’s mind that she must be miserable through lov- 
ing some one ; but so completely had she been imbued with the 
idea of her companion being some mysteriously beautiful and no- 
ble creature, who could not be moved by the meaner loves and 
thoughts of a girl like herself, that she at once dismissed the 
supposition. Perhaps, she thought, the shock of severely injur- 
ing her friend still affected her, and had induced a temporary de- 
spondency. Grete therefore resolved, in her direct way, to be as 
amusing as possible ; and she never tired of directing her com- 
panion’s attention to the beautiful and wonderful things they saw 
on their way — the scarlet grasshoppers which rattled their wings 
among the warm grass, the brilliantly colored beetles, the pict- 
uresque crucifixes by the way-side, or the simultaneous splash of a 
lot of tiny fish among the reeds, as some savage pike made a rush 
at them from the deeper water. 

In process of time they left the soft blue breadth >of the lake 
behind them, and found themselves in the valley leading up to 
the Feldberg. Grete struck an independent zigzag course up the 
hill’s side, clambering up rocky slopes, cutting through patches 
of forest, and so on, until they found ^themselves on the high 
mountain road leading to their destination. Nothing was to be 
seen of the carriage ; and so they went on alone, into the silence 
of the tall pines, while the valley beneath them gradually grew 
wider, and the horizon beyond grew more and more distant. 
Now they were really in the Black Forest of the old romances ; 
not the low-lying districts, where the trees are of modern growth, 
but up in the rocky wilderness, where the magnificent trunks' were 
encrusted and coated with lichens of immemorial age — w^iere the 


HOMEWARD. 


167 


spongy yellow-green moss, here and there of a dull crimson, would 
let a man sink to the waist — where the wild profusion of un- 
derwood was rank and strong with the heat of the sun and the 
moisture of innumerable streams trickling down their rocky chan- 
nels in the hill-side — where the yellow light, falling between the 
splendid stems of the trees, glimmered away down the narrow 
avenues, and seemed to conjure up strange forms and faces out 
of the still brushwood and the fantastic gray lichens which hung 
everywhere around. Several times a cock capercailzie, with two 
or three hens under his protection, would rise with a prodigious 
noise and disappear in the green darkness overhead ; occasionally 
a mountain-hare flew past ; and Grete, with an inherited interest, 
pointed out to her friend the tiny footmarks of the deer on the 
sand of the rough and winding road. 

“ See, mademoiselle, there is Aenchen Baumer’s house.” 

They had come to an opening in the pines which revealed the 
broad yellow valley beneath, with its sunlit road running like a 
thread of silk through it. Grete’s friend’s house was a little white 
building with green casements, and a few vines growing up one 
of the gables : it was separated from the road by a paling which 
interrupted the long line of rough stone posts which a paternal 
government had stuck in the ground to prevent carriages tum- 
bling still farther down into, the bed of the hollow. 

“You have come a long way out of your road, Grete,” said 
Miss Brunei. 

“ I came to accompany you, mademoiselle. I can easily go 
back to Aenchen’s house before the evening.” 

The upward road now grew more and more jagged, rough, and 
full of mud-holes, until at last they left the forest region altogether, 
and got into the high pasture districts of the mountain. Finally, 
as the path became a track, grass-grown and rocky, they arrived 
at a square gray building, with a small garden attached, which 
stood on the summit of the shoulder of the hill. 

“ It is the Feldberg Inn,” said Grete. 

“Is it pleasant to live on the top of the mountain ?” asked her 
companion. 

“ Oh yes, mademoiselle ; only it is a little cold. And when 
you look out at night, in the moonlight, it frightens one ; for all 
the house seems surrounded by a yellow mist, which floats about 
and makes figures, and then sweeps away, and you see the gar- 


1G8 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


den sharp and clear. It is the clouds, you know. Franz Gers- 
bach has told me of his having been on the top of the Niessen 
one morning before sunrise, and while all the great mountains 
opposite — the Jungfrau, and the Monch, and the Eiger, and all 
these — were still cold and dark, he saw Monte Rosa and Mont 
Blanc, away down in the south, with a pale pink flame on their 
peaks in the midst of the green sky. Here we have no snow 
on our mountains, except in the winter-time ; and then some- 
times the people up here have their supplies cut off for a long 
time.” 

There was a tall, fair-faced, sleepy-looking man standing at the 
door of the inn, with whom Grete shook hands. The giant 
blushed slightly, answered her questions in laconic monosyllables, 
and then led the way into the house, apparently relieved to be 
out of the observation of the two girls. 

“ It is the landlord’s brother,” said Grete, “ and a friend of 
mine.” 

“You have a number of friends,” said Annie Brunei, with a 
smile ; “ and they seem to be all big men. If you were as small 
as I am, one might account for your liking big men.” 

Grete Halm looked at her companion. There could be no 
doubt about the German girl being the taller and certainly the 
stouter of the two ; and yet until that moment she had fancied 
that Miss Brunei was ever so much taller than she. 

“ It is the manner of your walk, mademoiselle, and your figure, 
and perhaps the expression of your face, that make me think you 
tall. No, I see you are not tall.” 

For a moment Margarethe’s soft brown eyes dwelt on her com- 
panion — perhaps with a touch of wistful, puzzled longing to know 
why grace of form should so touch our sympathies; then she 
turned to the large Heinrich Holzmann, whose big shoulders 
should have been more attractive to a girl’s eye than another 
girl’s waist, and said that the young English lady wished the best 
apartments in the house. Margarethe further gave him to under- 
stand that his guests would be very particular about their cook- 
ery ; and, above all, that they would not submit to have but one 
fork and knife to attend them through four or five courses. Hein- 
rich said “Yaw” in a grave manner to all her directions, and 
begged her to tell the English lady that his brother, who spoke 
French, would be home next day. 


HOMEWARD. 


169 


u But the lady and her friend, who will be here presently, must 
not starve till to-morrow,” said the practical Grete. 

“ Nein,” said Heinrich, absently. 

“ I mean they must have dinner here, and you must look after 
it, Heinrich Holzmann.” 

“Ja, ja.” 

“You have plenty in the house?” 

“Ja.” 

“The lady says that after the carriage arrives you can have 
dinner prepared ; that is, the lady and her friend at one table, 
and Hermann Lowe, the coachman, and I at another. Do you 
understand ?” 

“Freilich.” 

“ If the girls want help, ask me.” 

“ Danke schon, Grete.” 

“ And as you don’t seem to have anybody here, shall I take 
the lady up-stairs and pick out what rooms she wants ?” 

“Yes, if that pleases you,” said the fair -haired giant; and 
therewith he opened the door for Miss Brunei, and made her a 
grave bow as she went with Grete into the passage, and so up to 
the rooms above. 

It was nearly half an hour afterward that the carriage arrived ; 
and Mrs. Christmas, with much excitement, caught Annie in her 
arms and kissed her, declaring she had never expected to see her 
again. The road they had come ! — the precipices they had skirt- 
ed, with the three horses slipping on the smooth rocks at the very 
brink ! — the vehicle leaning over as if it were about to topple 
headlong down ! — the jolting into deep ruts and over blocks of 
stone ! 

“ I screamed,” she said, “ and insisted on being helped out of 
the carriage; for they would have me sit still, declaring there 
was no danger. Danger !” 

And the little woman shivered. 

“ So you walked all the way ?” 

“ Until we got down into the valley.” 

Grete and Hermann were invited to dine with the two ladies, 
and in the evening they all convoyed the young German girl 
down to the house of her friend. 

For several days they remained on the Feldberg, beguiling the 
time as best they might. Mrs. Christmas had now quite recov- 

8 


170 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


ered her normal condition of health and spirits, and labored hard 
to discover why her companion was so preoccupied, restless, and 
absent in manner. Why, too, was this journey down through 
Switzerland being indefinitely postponed ? Every morning it 
was — 

“ Miss Annie, do we start to-day ?” 

“ Not to-day, mother. Let us have another day’s quiet.” 

“You will kill yourself with dulness, Miss Annie. There is 
nothing for you to do.” 

“ Let us climb to the top of the peak, and see the tower.” 

“ I have tried twice, and failed. And if you persist in going 
up there alone, you will tumble down into that horrible lake you 
told me of.” 

“ Then let us descend to the lake to-day, if you please.” 

She could not leave the neighborhood. She lingered there, 
day after day, that she might have tidings from Schonstein. 
Two letters she had received from the count told her nothing 
definite ; they were very polite, grave, respectful communications, 
in which he hoped she would visit Schonstein again on her re- 
turn. Hermann, on going back to his master, had written to 
Grete Halm, and merely mentioned that the English gentleman 
was still in his room, and that the surgeon did not speak very 
confidently of the case. 

This day, also, she prevailed on Mrs. Christmas to stay ; and to- 
gether, after breakfast, they set out in quest of the Feldsee, the 
small lake that lies deep down in the heart of the mountain. 
They were furnished with a few directions from Heinrich Holz- 
mann’s brother; but as neither time nor direction was of much 
consequence to them, they plunged carelessly into the forest, and 
proceeded slowly to descend the side of the mountain. At last, 
they came upon a path which led down through the jumbled and 
picturesque confusion of shattered rock, smooth bowlder, moss, 
fern, and herbage, that lay around the foot of the tall, resinous- 
smelling pines ; and this track they leisurely followed until, from 
the twilight of the trees, it led them out into the obscure daylight 
which dwelt over the gloomy tarn they sought. 

Nothing could well be more lonely or melancholy than this 
dark and silent lake, lying in its circular bed — evidently an ex- 
tinct volcanic crater — overshadowed by tall and perpendicular 
crags hemming it in on every side, and scarcely ever having a 


HOMEWARD. 


171 


breath of wind to stir its leaden-like surface. The tall, thinly 
clad rocks, rising to the circular breadth of white sky above, 
were faintly mirrored in the black water underneath; and the 
gloomy stillness of the quiet, motionless picture was not relieved 
by the least stir or sound of any living thing. This hideous hole, 
its surface nearly four thousand feet above the level of the sea, is 
of unknown depth. No wonder that the superstitious Schwarz- 
walders have legends about it, and that the children tell you of 
the demon-deer that was wont to spring over the tall precipices 
above, and so lure on the unwary huntsman and his horse to de- 
struction. 

There was a boat lying moored in a creek at one corner of the 
lake, and of this Annie Brunei at once took possession. She in- 
sisted on Mrs. Christmas getting into it; and then, with a few 
strokes of the oars, she pulled out to the centre of the lake. Mrs. 
Christmas did not at all like the aspect of the place ; and if she 
had known that she was floating over an extinct volcano, she 
would probably have liked it less. 

“ It looks like a place for murders to be committed,” she said. 

When they had reached the centre of the dark water, Annie 
laid aside the oars, and seated herself in the stern of the boat 
with her companion. There was no wind, no current: the boat 
remained almost motionless. 

The old woman took the young girl’s hand, and said to her, 

“ Come now, Miss Annie, you must tell me what has been the 
matter with you lately. What has vexed you, or what troubles 
you ?” 

“I have been thinking of returning to England,” she said, 
absently. 

“ Why should that trouble you ?” 

“ I am afraid of going back.” 

“Bah! I have no patience with you. You are as much a 
child as ever — as when you used to whimper in a make-believe 
way, and cause your mother to laugh and cry together over your 
natural turn for acting.” 

“My natural turn for acting is going — is nearly gone,” said 
she, with a smile ; “ and that is what I am afraid about. I am 
beginning to fear a lot of faces.” 

“ Then why will you remain in such a dreadfully lonely place 
as this mountain inn ? That it is which breeds strange fancies in 


m 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


you, my girl, don’t doubt of it. Afraid of faces ! Didn’t you 
use to tell me that you were never conscious of seeing a face at 
all when you were on the stage?” 

“ I may have said so,” she replied, musingly. “ I don’t think 
I ever did see faces, except as vague orange - colored lamps in a 
sort of ruddy darkness, over the blaze of the foot -lights, you 
know. Certainly I never thought of them, nor heeded them. 
When I went off, and heard the noise of their hands and feet, it 
seemed like the sound of some machine with which I had no con- 
cern. I don’t think I ever feared an audience in my life. My 
mother used to be my audience, as she stood in the wings and 
looked at me with the half-smile and kindly eyes I remember so 
well ; and then I used to try to please you, you know, and never 
succeeded, as you also know, Lady Jane; and lately I have not 
thought of pleasing anybody, but of satisfying a sort of delirium 
that came over me.” 

“You never pleased me! You wicked creature! If I were 
blind, and came into a theatre where I heard you playing your 
Juliet, my eyes would open of their own accord.” 

“That time has passed over, Lady Jane. I am afraid of going 
to England. I should see all the faces now, and wonder what 
the people were saying of my hands outstretched, or of my kneel- 
ing posture, or of my elocution. I feel that if I were to get up 
just now, in this boat, and speak two sentences — ” 

“ You would have us both laughing. But did you ever try be- 
fore, my dear, to act to a scene? You might as well try to speak 
to an empty theatre as to that horrible loneliness over there. It 

was Mr. Bridges, the stage-manager at N , if you remember, 

Miss Annie, who used to rehearse in the morning his speech be- 
fore the curtain — used to wave his hand and smile to the empty 
benches, and then bow himself out backward. But at night, 
when the people were there, he always forgot the smile and the 
wave of the hand, and mumbled like a school-boy. And as for 
your not being able to act when you hear the stir of a crowded 
house on the other side of the curtain, and know there are a doz- 
en bouquets waiting for you in the boxes, why it’s nonsense, my 
dear.” 

“I am afraid of it none the less, mother, and I shall dread put- 
ting myself to the test.” 

“ All the result of this living out of the world,” said Mrs. Christ- 


HOMEWARD. 


173 


mas, dogmatically. il Say, shall we start to-morrow morning, Miss 
Annie ?” 

“ Yes.” 

When they returned to the inn there was a letter from Schon- 
stein awaiting Miss Brunei. She knew from the peculiar hand- 
writing who had sent it, and opened it joyfully, knowing that he 
was at least well enough to write. These were the words : 

“ Schonstein, Thursday. 

“ My dear Miss Brunel, — Ever since you left I have bitterly 
reproached myself for having given you so much annoyance and 
trouble. I hear that you are living, without amusement or com- 
panions, in the Feldberg Inn. May I beg of you to return here, 
adding the assurance that you will not be troubled by my pres- 
ence in any way whatever? Whether you do or not, I cannot 
permit you to leave without bidding you good-bye, especially as 
we may not see each other in England ; and so, if you will for- 
give me this once, I propose to cross over to the Feldberg to-mor- 
row and visit you,” etc., etc. 

She read no more ; the cramped left-hand writing had told her 
enough. She hurriedly wrote a reply, peremptorily forbidding 
him to be at the trouble and danger of such an expedition ; and 
added that before he could possibly be at the Feldberg she would 
be on her way to Freiburg and Basle. Then she called the elder 
Holzmann, and desired him to get a messenger to take over this 
letter to Schonstein that day, and informed him that on the next 
morning she and her companion would set out for the South. 

It was a point of maidenly honor with her that she should go 
away with her sad secret her own ; and who could tell what dis- 
closure might happen, were she to see him suffering from the ef- 
fects of the wound, entreating her to stay, and with his own love 
for her speaking in his eyes? He was a man, and it did not 
matter ; as for her, she closed this fatal tenderness in her heart, 
and would fain have deceived herself into denying its existence. 
Truth to say, she felt a touch of shame at her own weakness ; was 
dimly conscious that her virginal purity of soul was tainted by a 
passion which she dreamed was a guilty one ; and knew that her 
punishment lay in the loss of that innocent gayety and thought- 
lessness which had hitherto made her life so pleasant. 


174 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


‘“We may not see each other in England,’ ” she said to her* 
self, gazing at the crooked and trembling lines on the paper. 
“ Not in England, nor elsewhere, will be my constant prayer so 
long as I live.” 

So they left the gloomy mountain, and, passing through the 
Hollenthal once more, reached Freiburg; and from thence, by 
easy stages, they made the round of the Swiss lakes, until, as fate 
would have it, they came to Thun. There they rested for a day 
or two, preparatory to their undertaking the voyage to England. 

Here a strange incident befel Annie Brunei. Their first walk 
lay along the shore of the lake ; and no sooner had they left the 
side of the rapid, bright-green Aar than Mrs. Christmas noticed 
a strange, intense look of wonder settling over her companion’s 
face. Wistfully, and yet curiously, the dark-gray eyes dwelt on 
the expanding lake, on the long curving bays, on the sunlit moun- 
tains opposite, and on the far-off snow-peaks of the Bernese Alps. 

“ I have seen all this in a dream,” she said. 

“ Or in a picture,” suggested Mrs. Christmas. 

“ It is more than a dream or a picture,” she continued, in a 
half-frightened way, as they walked along. “ I know the place — 
I know it — the shore over there, the village down yonder at the 
point, and the smoke hanging over the trees ; I am getting quite 
giddy with — remembering — ” 

“ My dear !” said Mrs. Christmas. 

Her companion was now quite pale, and stood fixed to the 
spot, looking over the long scene in front of her with a wild stare. 
Then she turned round, as if almost in fear, and no sooner had 
she done so than she uttered a slight cry, and seemed ready to 
sink to the ground. 

“ I knew it ! I knew it !” she said. “ I knew the house was 
there before I turned my head.” 

She looked up at the handsome building on the plateau above, 
as if it were some horrible thing come to torture her. It was 
only the house in which Harry Ormond had bidden her mother 
farewell. 


IN ENGLAND. 


175 


CHAPTER XXI. 

IN ENGLAND. 

Mr. Melton was overjoyed to see Annie Brunei in London 
again. He had spent half his fortune in beautifying his theatre, 
in getting up elaborate scenery for the new piece with which he 
was to welcome the return to town of his patrons, and in provid- 
ing costly properties. So long as the heroine of the piece was 
wandering among the mountains of the Schwarzwald, it was im- 
possible that the manager’s mind could be well at ease. 

“You shall come round now and see what we have done for 
you, and give us your opinion,” said he, politely. 

Indeed, he would like to have kissed her just then, in a father- 
ly way, to show how delighted he was to have her back again. 
He saw pictures of overflowing audiences before his mind as he 
looked on the quiet little figure before him, on the dark face, and 
the large, grave eyes. 

It was about eleven o’clock in the forenoon. A tolerably clear 
light fell upon the stage, a duskier twilight hung over the rows 
of empty benches in the pit, and the gloomy darkness behind the 
galleries was here and there lighted up by a solitary lamp. One 
or two gilders were still at work on the front of the dress-circle ; 
overhead an echoing clang of hammer and nail told that carpen- 
ters were busy ; and a vague shouting from the dusky region of 
the “ flies ” revealed the presence of human beings in those dim 
Olympian heights. Everywhere, as usual, the smell of escaped 
gas ; here and there an odor of size or paint. 

As they descended from the dark corridor behind the dress- 
circle into the wings, a mass of millinery ran full-tilt against Mr. 
Melton, and then started back with a slight cry and a giggle. 

“ God bless my soul !” said the manager, piously, although that 
was not the part of his body which had suffered. 

The next moment Miss Featherstone had thrown her arms 
around Annie Brunei’s neck, and was kissing her, and calling her 
“ My dear ” with that profusion of sentiment which most actresses 


176 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


love to scatter over the object, 'pro tem ., of their affection. Miss 
Featherstone was attired in a green-silk dress— in many a love- 
scene had that rather dingy piece of costume figured, on the stage 
and elsewhere — a blue -cloth jacket, a white hat with a scarlet 
feather, and yellow gloves. During this outburst of emotion Mr. 
Melton had caught sight of a young gentleman to whom he gave 
thirty shillings a week in order that he might dress as a gentle- 
man should, and always have a good hat to keep on his head 
while walking about in a drawing-room — who had been in pursuit 
of Miss Featherstone, and who now sneaked away in another di- 
rection. 

“And so you’ve come back, my dear, and none of the German 
princes have run away with you ! And how well you look ! I 
declare I’m quite ashamed of myself when I see the color in your 
cheeks ; but what with rehearsals, you know, my dear, and other 
troubles — ” 

She heaved a pretty and touching sigh. She intimated that 
these quarrels with the young gentleman who escorted her to 
and from the stage-door — quarrels which came off at a rate of 
about seven per week — were disturbing the serenity of her mind 
so far as to compel her to assist nature with violet-powder and 
rouge. 

“ Do you know, my dear,” she said, in a whisper that sent Mr. 
Melton away on his own business, “ he swears he will forsake me 
forever if I accept a part in which I must wear tights. How can 
I help it, my dear ? What is a poor girl to do ?” 

“ Wear trousers,” said Annie Brunei, with a smile. 

“ Nothing will please him. He would have all my comic parts 
played in a train half a mile long. At last I told him he had 
better go and help my mother to cut my skirts and petticoats of a 
proper length ; and he pretended to be deeply hurt, and I haven’t 
seen him since.” 

Then she tossed her wilful little head with an air of defiance. 

“ He will write to me before I write to him.” 

“ It is too cruel of you,” said her companion. 

“ Yes, my dear, you may laugh ; but you have no burlesque 
parts to play. And you have nobody sitting in the stalls watch- 
ing your every movement, and keeping you in a fright about what 
he is thinking of you.” 

“ No,” said Annie Brunei, rather absently, “ I have nobody to 


IN ENGLAND. 


177 


watch me like that. If I had, I should not be able to go upon 
the stage, I think.” 

“ And the bitter things he says about the profession — and par- 
ticularly about Mr. Gannet, and Mr. Marks, and Mr. Jobson — all 
because they are young men, and he fancies they may be so polite 
as to lift a glove for me if I let it fall. You know, my dear, that 
I don’t encourage them. If there’s any fun at rehearsal, you 
know that I don’t begin it.” 

“ When we met you just now — ” 

“ That was only some of Mr. Murphy’s nonsense. Oh, I de- 
clare to you, no one knows what I have suffered ! The other 
evening, when he and I got into a cab, he glared at the man who 
opened the door for us. And the fuss he makes about cosmetic 
and bismuth is something dreadful.” 

“ He must be a monster.” 

There now ensued a little fragment of thorough comedy. For a 
moment the elderly young lady, who had been assuming through- 
out the tone of a spoiled child, stood irresolute. There was a 
petulance on her face, and she had half a mind to go away in 
high dudgeon from one who was evidently laughing at her. Then 
through this petulance there broke a sort of knowing smile, while 
a glimmer of mischievous intelligence appeared in her eyes ; and 
then, with an unaffected comical giggle, she once more threw her 
arms round Annie Brunei’s neck and kissed her. 

“ I’m very wicked, I know,” she said, with a shrug of the shoul- 
ders, “ but I can’t help it. What’s bred in the bone, you know. 
And it’s all the men’s fault, for they keep teasing one so. As for 
him, if he writes to me, and makes an apology, and promises to 
be a good boy, I’ll make friends with him. And I’ll be very good 
myself — for a week.” 

It was with a cold inward shiver that Annie Brunei stepped 
out upon the stage and looked round the empty theatre. She 
tried to imagine it full of people, and yellow light, and stir, and 
she knew within herself she dared not venture before them. 
Even without that solitary pair of eyes watching her move- 
ments, and without the consciousness that she might be pro- 
ducing a strong impression, for good or evil, on one particular 
person whose estimation she desired, she trembled to think of 
the full house, and the rows of faces, and her own individual 
weakness. 

8 * 


178 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ What do you think of the decorations, Miss Brunei ?” said 
Mr. Melton, coming up. 

“ They are very pretty,” she said, mechanically. 

“With your Rosalind, the theatre should draw all London 
to it.” 

“ It is Rosalind you mean to play ?” she asked, scarcely know- 
ing what she said. 

“ Certainly !” replied the manager, with astonishment. “ Don’t 
you remember our agreement ? If you turn round, you will see 
the new forest-scene Mr. Gannet has painted ; perhaps it may re- 
mind you of something in the Black Forest.” 

For a moment or two she glanced over the great breadth of 
canvas, covered with gnarled oaks, impossible brushwood, and a 
broad, smooth stream. With a short “ No, it is not like the 
Black Forest,” she turned away again. 

“Miss Featherstone will play Celia; and you know there is 
not a Touchstone in the world to come near Bromley’s. Mrs. 
Wilkes refuses to play Audrey, luckily, and Miss Alford will play 
it a deal better. I have had several rehearsals, everybody is de- 
clared letter-perfect ; and we only want you to put the keystone 
to the arch, as one might say.” 

She turned quickly round, and said to him, 

“ If I were at the last moment prevented from playing in the 
piece, could Miss Featherstone take Rosalind, and some one else 
play Celia?” 

“ What do you mean, my dear Miss Brunei ?” said the manager, 
aghast. “ You frighten me, I assure you. I calculated upon you; 
and after all this expense, and your agreement, and — ” 

“ Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Melton,” she said, quietly. “ I 
mean to play the part so as to give every satisfaction both to 
you and myself, if I can. I only asked in the event of any 
accident.” 

“ Come,” said he, kindly, “ I can’t have you talk in that strain, 
with such a prospect before us. Why, we are going to set all 
London, as well as the Thames, on fire, and have the prices of 
the stalls going at a hundred per cent, premium. An accident ! 
Bah! I wish Count Schonstein were here to laugh the notion 
out of your head.” 

So it was, therefore, that the play was put in full rehearsal for 
several days, and Mr. Melton looked forward hopefully to the 


IN ENGLAND. 


179 


success of his new venture. Sometimes he was a little disquiet- 
ed by the remembrance of Miss Brunei’s singular question ; but 
he strove to banish it from his mind. He relied upon his new 
scenery and decorations, and upon Annie Brunei ; the former 
were safe, and he would take care to secure the latter. 

The gentlemen of the press had been good enough to mention 
the proposed revival in terms of generous anticipation. Alto- 
gether, Mr. Melton had every reason to hope for the best. 

Occasionally he observed an unusual constraint in the manner 
of his chief favorite, and sometimes a listless indifference to 
what was going on around her. Once or twice he had caught 
her standing idly behind the foot-lights, gazing into the empty 
theatre with a vague earnestness which revealed some inward 
purpose. He still trusted that all would go well ; and yet he 
confessed to himself that there was something about the young 
actress’s manner that he had never noticed before, and which he 
could not at all understand. 

Mrs. Christmas seemed to share with him this uneasy feeling. 
He knew that the old lady was now in the habit of lecturing her 
pupil in a derisive way, as if trying to banish some absurd notion 
from her mind ; and whenever he approached, Mrs. Christmas be- 
came silent. 

For the first time during their long companionship Mrs. Christ- 
mas found her young friend incomprehensibly obstinate, not to 
say intractable. Night and day she strove to convince her that 
in anticipating nervousness and failure she was rendering both 
inevitable ; and yet she could not, by all her arguments and en- 
treaties, remove this gloomy apprehension. 

“I cannot explain the feeling,” was the constant reply. “I 
only know it is there.” 

“ But you, of all people, Miss Annie ! Girls who have sudden- 
ly come to try the stage get fits of stage-fright naturally; but 
people who are born and bred to it, who have been on the stage 
since their childhood — ” 

“ Why should you vex yourself, mother ? I have no dread of 
stage-fright. I shall be as cool as I am now. Don’t expect that 
I shall blunder in my part, or make mistakes otherwise — that is 
not what I mean. W 7 hat I fear is, that the moment I go upon 
the stage, and see the men and women all around me, I shall feel 
that I am just like one of them, only a little lower, in having to 


180 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


amuse them. I shall feel as if I ought to be ashamed of myself 
in imitating the real emotions of life.” 

“ You never had any of those fantastic notions before. Didn’t 
you use to pride yourself on your indifference to the people?” 

“I used to.” 

“ What has changed you ?” 

“ My growing older,” she replied, with a sad smile. “ I begin 
to feel as if those things that make up acting had become part 
of my own life now, and that I had no business to burlesque 
them any more on the stage. I begin to wonder what the peo- 
ple will think of my lending myself to a series of tricks.” 

And here she fell into a reverie, which Mrs. Christmas saw 
it was useless to interrupt. The worthy old woman was sorely 
puzzled and grieved by the apostasy of her most promising pu- 
pil, and ceased not to speculate on what subtle poison had been 
allowed to creep into her mind. 

Meanwhile the opening night had arrived. People had come 
back from the moors and Mont Blanc, and every place in the 
theatre had been taken. Mr. Melton already enjoyed his triumph 
by anticipation, and tried every means of keeping up Annie Bru- 
nei’s spirits. She was bound to achieve the most brilliant of all 
her successes, as he confidently told her. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

ROSALIND. 

“ Ah, mon bon petit public, be kind to my leetel child !” says 
Achille Talma Dufard, when his daughter is about to go on the 
stage for the first time. The words were in the heart, if not on 
the lips, of Mrs. Christmas, as the kindly old woman busied her- 
self in Annie Brunei’s dressing-room, and prepared her favorite 
for the coming crisis. She had a vague presentiment that it was 
to be a crisis, though she did not know why. 

By the time the inevitable farce was over, the house was full. 
Miss Featherstone, rushing down-stairs to change her costume of 
a bar -maid for that of Celia, brought word that all the critics 
were present, that royalty was expected, and that her own par- 


ROSALIND. 


181 


ticular young gentleman had laughed so heartily at the farce, 
that she was sure he was in a good humor, and inclined to let 
by-gones be by-gones. 

“ So you must cheer up,” said Mrs. Christmas, blithely, when 
Nelly had gone ; “ you must cheer up, and do great things, my 
dear.” 

“ Am I not sufficiently cheerful, Lady Jane ?” 

“Cheerful? Cheerful? Yes, perhaps cheerful. But you 
must forget all you have been saying about the people, and mind 
only your character, and put fire and spirit into it. Make them 
forget who you are, my dear, and then you’ll only think of your- 
self as Rosalind. Isn’t your first cue 'Be merry P ” 

“Then I will be merry, mother, or anything else you wish. 
So don’t vex your poor little head about me. I shall add a gray 
hair to it if you bother yourself so much.” 

“ You would find it hard to change it now, unless you changed 
it to black,” said Lady Jane. 

When Rosalind and Celia together appeared on the stage, a 
long and hearty welcome was given forth from every part of 
the house. Mr. Melton was standing in the wings with Mrs. 
Christmas, and his dry, gray face brightened up with pleasure. 

“ They have not forgotten her, have they ?” he said, trium- 
phantly. 

“ How could they ?” was the natural response. 

From that moment the old woman’s eyes never left the form 
of her scholar during the progress of the play. Keenly and nar- 
rowly she watched the expression of her face, her manner of act- 
ing, the subtle harmony of word and gesture, which, in careful 
keeping, make the part of Rosalind an artistic wonder. And 
the more narrowly she studied her pupil’s performance, the more 
she convinced herself that there was nothing to be found fault 
with. The timid pleasantries, the tender sadness, the coy love 
advances, tempered and beautified by that unconscious halo of 
modesty and virgin grace which surrounds the gentlest of all 
Shakspeare’s heroines, were there before her eyes, and she was 
forced to say to herself that no Rosalind could be more charm- 
ing than this Rosalind. She did not reflect that never before 
had she been constrained so to convince herself, and that never 
before had she been so anxious to know the effect on the au- 
dience. 


182 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


That, so far as was yet appreciable, was satisfactory. The 
mere charm of admirably artistic acting, combined with a grace- 
ful figure and a pretty face, was enough to captivate any body of 
spectators. Mrs. Christmas, however, dared not confess to her- 
self that they seemed to want that electric thrill of sympathy 
which had been wont to bring them and the young actress imme- 
diately en rapport. Once only did they, in the first act, catch 
that swift contagion of delight which flashes through an audience 
bound by the master -spell of genius. It was where Rosalind, 
having graced the victorious wrestler with a chain from her own 
neck, is about to go away with Celia, and yet is loath to go 
without having had speech of the young man who has so awak- 
ened her interest. The half-interpreted longing, the hesitating 
glance, and maiden bashfulness with which she turned to him 
and said : 

“ Did you call, sir ? 

Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown 
More than your enemies,” 

— her eyes first seeking his face, and then being cast down, as the 
words became almost inaudible — provoked the house into a sud- 
den tempest of applause which covered her disappearance from 
the scene. Mrs. Christmas caught her as she came off, and kissed 
her, with nervous tears in her eyes. 

At the end of the first act she was called before the curtain. 
Any one calmly observing the house would have seen that it was 
not very enthusiastic, and that it fell to talking almost before she 
had passed behind the curtain at the opposite side. Then she 
went down to her dressing-room. 

Mrs. Christmas welcomed her and complimented her with an 
emphasis which was a little forced and unnecessary. Annie Bru- 
nei said nothing, but stood and contemplated, with her straight- 
looking, honest eyes, the poor little woman who was courageously 
trying to act her part naturally. Then she sat down. 

“ Do you think I did my best, mother ?” she said. And again 
she fixed her large eyes, with a kind conciliation in them, on her 
aged friend. 

“ Of course — ” 

“And you were watching me, I think?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And the house ?” 


ROSALIND. 


183 


“A little,” said Mrs. Christmas, rather nervously. 

“ Then you know,” she said, calmly, “ that I have made a total 
failure, that the people think so, and that to-morrow every one, 
including the papers, will say so.” 

“ My dear !” 

“Why should we not speak frankly, mother? I felt it within 
myself, and I saw it in their faces. And I knew it before I went 
on the staged 

“ That is it ! That has done it all !” exclaimed the old woman, 
inclined to wring her hands in despair and grief. “You con- 
vinced yourself that you were going to fail, and then when you 
went on the stage, you lost command over youself.” 

“Had I not command over myself?” the young girl asked, 
with a smile. “ I had so great command of myself that I know 
and was conscious of everything I did — the tiniest thing — and 
kept continually asking myself how it would impress the people. 
I was never in the least excited ; had I been — But there is no 
use talking, Lady Jane. Help me to change my dress ; I suppose 
I must go through with it.” 

So Mrs. Christmas officiated in place of Sarah, whom she al- 
ways ordered out of the way on grand occasions ; and, as she did 
so, she still administered counsel and reproof, not having quite 
given up hope. 

Two of the most distinguished of the critics met in the lobby 
leading to the stalls. 

“A pity, is it not?” said one. 

The other merely shrugged his shoulders. 

The general run of the critics fancied that Annie Brunei had 
added another to her list of brilliant successes, and were already 
shaping in their brain elaborate sentences overflowing with ad- 
jectives. 

Lord Weyminster, whom people considered to have a share in 
the proprietary of the theatre, went behind the scenes and met 
Mr. Melton. 

“ This won’t do, my boy,” he said. 

“ t)o you think not ?” said the manager, anxiously. “ They 
received her very warmly.” 

“ They received Miss Brunei warmly, but not her Rosalind.” 

“What’s to be done?” 

“ Change the piece.” 


184 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ I can’t. Perhaps it was only a temporary indisposition.” 

“ Perhaps,” said his lordship, carelessly. “ I never saw such a 
difference in the acting of any woman. Formerly she was full of 
fire ; to-night she was wooden — pretty enough, and proper enough, 
but wooden.” 

Further consolation or advice Mr. Melton could not get out of 
his patron. In despair, he said that his lordship was exagger- 
ating a temporary constraint on the part of the young actress, 
and that the succeeding scenes would bring her out in full force. 

The wood scene was, of course, charming. Miss Featherstone’s 
young gentleman, sitting in the stalls, surrendered himself to the 
delicious intoxication of the moment (Celia, it will be remem- 
bered, wears long petticoats), and wondered whether he could 
write a poem on the forest of Arden. He was in that fond 
period of existence when the odor of escaped gas, anywhere, at 
once awoke for him visions of green-wood scenery and romantic 
love-affairs; and when the perfume of cold cream conjured up 
the warm touch of a certain tender cheek — for Miss Feather- 
stone, when in a hurry to get home from the theatre, occasionally 
left her face unwashed. 

The people never lost interest in the play. Indeed, being Lon- 
doners, they were sufficiently glad to see any character played 
with careful artistic propriety, and it was only as an after-thought 
that they missed the old thrill of Annie Brunei’s acting. It 
could always be said of the part that it was gracefully and ten- 
derly done, void of coarse comedy and clap-trap effects. It struck 
a certain low and chastened key of sweetness and harmony that 
partially atoned for the absence of more daring and thrilling 
chords. 

And yet Annie Brunei went home sick at heart. The loss of 
popular favor did not trouble her ; for had not the people been 
remarkably kind, and even enthusiastic, in their final call ? It was 
the certain consciousness that the old power had passed away 
from her forever — or, rather, that the intensity and emotional 
abandonment of her artistic nature had been sucked into her 
own personal nature, and was nevermore to be separately exhib- 
ited as a beautiful and wonderful human product. 

“ Mother, I am tired of acting,” she said. “ It has been weigh- 
ing upon me ever so long ; but I thought I ought to give myself 
one more chance, and see if the presence of a big audience would 


ROSALIND. 


185 


not remove my sickness. No ; it has not. Everything I had 
anticipated occurred. I was not frightened ; but I knew that all 
the people were there, and that I could not command them. I 
was not Rosalind either to them or to myself; and it was not 
Rosalind whom they applauded. The noise they made seemed 
to me to have a tone of pity in it, as if they were trying to de- 
ceive me into thinking well of the part.” 

All this she said quietly and frankly ; and Mrs. Christmas sat 
stunned and silent. It seemed to the old woman that some terri- 
ble calamity had occurred. She could not follow the subtle sym- 
pathies and distinctions of which the young actress spoke : she 
knew only that something had happened to destroy the old fa- 
miliar compact between them, and that the future was full of a 
gloomy uncertainty. 

“ I don’t know what to say, Miss Annie. You know best what 
your feelings are. I know there’s something wrong somewhere.” 

“ Don’t talk so mournfully,” said she. “ If I don’t act any 
more, we shall find something else to keep us out of starvation.” 

“ If you don’t act any more !” said the old woman, in a bewil- 
dered way ; “if you don’t act any more ! Tell me, Miss Annie, 
what you mean. You’re not serious? You don’t mean that be- 
cause your Rosalind mayn’t have gone off pretty well, you in- 
tend to give up the stage altogether — at your time of life — with 
your prospects ! My darling, tell me what you mean ?” 

She went over and took her companion’s two hands in her 
own. 

“Why, mother, you tremble as if you expected some terrible 
misfortune to happen to us. You will make me as nervous as 
yourself if you don’t collect yourself. You have not been pre- 
pared for it as I have been. I have known for some time that I 
should not be able to act when I returned to London — ” 

With a slight scream, she started up and caught her friend, 
who was tottering and like to fall in her arms. The old woman 
had been unable to receive this intelligence all at once. It was 
too appalling and too sudden ; and when at last some intimation 
of it came home to her mind, she reeled under the shock. She 
uttered some incoherent words — “ my charge of youf “ your 
mother ,” “ the future ” — and then she sunk, quite insensible, upon 
the sofa to which Annie Brunei had half carried her. 


186 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

HOME AGAIN. 

Count Schonstein was in love. His ponderous hilarity had 
quite gone out of him. After Miss Brunei’s departure, he moved 
about the house alone and disconsolate ; he was querulous about 
his meals; he forgot to tell lies about the price of his wines. 
He ceased to joke about marriage ; he became wonderfully polite 
to the people about him, and, above all, to Will Anerley ; and 
every evening after dinner he was accustomed to sit and smoke 
silently in his chair, going over in his mind all the incidents of 
Annie Brunei’s visit, and hoping that nothing had occurred to 
offend her. 

Sometimes, in a fit of passionate longing, he wished he was 
again a tea-dealer and she the daughter of one of his clerks. He 
grew sick of his ambitious schemes ; inwardly cursed the aristoc- 
racy of this and every other country ; and prayed for some hum- 
ble cottage, with Annie Brunei for his wife, and with nothing for 
himself to do but sit and smoke, and watch the grape clusters 
over the veranda. 

Twenty years before he had been afflicted by the same visions. 
They did not alter much his course of life then ; nor did he per- 
mit them to move him much now — except after dinner, when 
most people become generously impulsive and talkative. In one 
of these moods he confessed to Will the passion which disturbed 
his repose. 

Will stared at him, for the mere thought of such a thing 
seemed to him a sort of sacrilege ; but the next moment he asked 
himself what right he had to resent the count’s affection for 
Annie Brunei as an insult, and then he was silent. 

“ Tell me, have I a chance ?” said the count. 

“ How can I tell you ?” he replied. 

“You were very friendly with her. You do not imagine there 
is anybody else in the young lady’s graces ?” 

“ I don’t know of any one whom Miss Brunei is likely to 
marry ; but, as I say, how can I tell ?” 


HOME AGAIN. 


187 


“ You imagine I have a fair field ?” asked the count, rather 
timidly. 

“ Oh yes,” said Will, with a laugh, in which there was just a 
touch of bitterness. “ But that is not the way you used to talk 
about women, and marriage, and so forth. Do you remember 
how you gloated over the saying of that newspaper -man who 
was at the Juliet supper — about being ‘sewed up in a theological 
sack with a partner for life ?’ I suppose you were only whistling 
in the dark, to scare the ghosts away, and now — ” 

There was no need to complete the sentence. The doleful 
look on the count’s rubicund face told its own tale. He shook 
his head rather sadly, and contemplatively stirred his Moselle with 
a bit of biscuit. 

“ It’s time a man like me was married. I have plenty of mon- 
ey to give my wife her own way ; we sha’n’t quarrel. There’s 
that big house standing empty ; you can’t expect people to come 
and visit you, if you’ve nobody to receive them. Look how per- 
fectly Miss Brunei could do that. Look at the grace of her de- 
meanor, and her courtesy, and all that: why, though she’s ever 
so little a thing, she looks like an empress when she comes into 
a room ! I never could get elsewhere such a wife as she would 
make.” 

“ Doubtless not ; but the point is to get her,” said Will, almost 
defiantly. He did not know whether to laugh at or be indignant 
with the count’s cool assumption. 

“ I tell you I would marry her if she was nothing but what 
she is,” the count said, vehemently, and then he suddenly paused, 
with a look of frightened embarrassment on his face. 

“How could she be anything else than what she is?” asked 
Will, carelessly : he had not observed the count’s trepidation. 

“Oh — well — ah — if she were nothing more than an ordinary 
actress, without the manners of a lady, I should be inclined to 
marry her, on account of her — her sweetness of disposition, you 
know.” 

“ What magnanimity !” said Will. 

“ Laugh as you please,” said the count, with a touch of offend- 
ed dignity, “ there are few men in my position who would marry 
an actress. If I should marry Miss Brunei, I should consider 
that while she did me a favor I paid her quite as great a com- 
pliment. Look at the estimation in which actresses are held. 


188 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


Look at those women of the theatre ; at Miss , and 

Miss , and Miss . Don’t the public know all about 

them ? And the public won’t stop to pick out one respectable 
actress from the lot, and be just to her. They all suffer for the 
sins of the majority ; and any actress, whatever may be her per- 
sonal character, ought to know that she lies under the ban of so- 
cial suspicion, and — ” 

“ Excuse my interrupting you. But you needn’t seek to lower 
Miss Brunei in my opinion : I am not going to marry her. And 
I should advise you not to attempt to lower her in her own opin- 
ion, if you mean to remain friends with her. You can’t humble 
a woman into accepting you; you may flatter her into accept- 
ing you. If a woman does not think she is conferring a favor 
in marrying you, she won’t at all — that is, if she is the sort of a 
woman any man would care to marry.” 

“ Leave that to me, my boy, leave that to me,” said the count, 
with a superb smile. “ I rather fancy, if flattery is to win the 
day, that I shall not be far behind.” 

“And yet I heard you one evening say to Nelly Featherstone 
that ‘all pretty women were idiots.’ How could any woman 
help being offended by such a remark ?” 

“ Why, don’t you see, you greenhorn, that Nelly isn’t pret- 
ty—” 

“ And you as good as told her so,” said Will. “ Besides, Nelly, 
like every other woman, fancies she is pretty in a certain way, 
and would rather that you had informed her of her idiocy than 
of her plainness.” 

The count blushed deeply. In making the remark to Miss 
Featherstone, he had imagined he was exhibiting a most remark- 
able and subtle knowledge of human weakness, and hoped to 
console her for the shape of her nose by sneering at the stupidity 
of prettier women. But the count was a rich man, and a great 
favorite of Mr. Melton ; and Nelly, being a prudent young wom- 
an, pocketed the affront. 

A variety of circumstances now transpired to hasten the return 
of both Will and the count to England. The former could do 
scarcely anything to the business for which he had come, through 
his inability to use his right arm. There were, besides, certain 
growing symptoms of irritation in the wounds which he had 
fancied were slowly healing, which made him anxious to con- 


HOME AGAIN. 


189 


suit some experienced English surgeon. Such were his ostensi- 
ble reasons. 

Under these circumstances, what pleasure could the count have 
in remaining in Schonstein alone ? He preferred to have Will’s 
company on the homeward journey ; and, besides, he was person- 
ally interested in learning whether the injuries his friend had 
suffered were likely to become more dangerous. Such were his 
ostensible reasons. 

But the crowning thought of both of them, as they turned their 
back upon Schonstein, was, “ I shall soon see Annie Brunei.” 

As they passed through the village, Margarethe Halm came out 
from under her father’s door, and the driver stopped the carriage. 

“ You will see the young English lady when you return home ?” 
said Grete to Will, with a blush on her pretty brown face. 

“And if Ido ?” 

“ Will you give her this little parcel ? It is my work.” 

With that she slipped the parcel into his hand. At this mo- 
ment Hans Halm came forward and bade both the gentlemen 
good-bye ; and in that moment Grete, unnoticed, timidly handed 
up to Hermann, who was seated beside the driver, another little 
parcel. There was a slight quivering of the lips as she did so ; 
and then she turned away, and went up to her own room, and 
threw herself, sobbing, on the bed in quite a passion of grief, not 
daring to look after the carriage as it rolled away into the forest. 

Hermann stealthily opened the packet, and found therein a lit- 
tle gilt Gebetbuch, with colored pictures of the saints throughout 
it, and a little inscription in front in Grete’s handwriting. Franz 
Gersbach, having been over at Donaueschingen, had secretly bought 
the tiny prayer-book for her ; and he knew all the time for whom 
it was intended. 

“ She is a good girl,” said Hermann, “ and a good girl makes a 
good wife. I will go once more to England, but never after that 
— no, not if I had seven hundred counts for my master.” 

They stopped a day at Strasburg, and there they found a lot 
of English newspapers of recent date. 

“ Look what the people are saying of Miss Brunei !” said Will, 
utterly confounded by the tone in which the journals spoke of 
Rosalind. 

The count took up paper after paper, and eagerly scanned such 
notices of the pieces as he could find. 


190 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ They are not very enthusiastic,” said he ; “ but they are re- 
ally most complimentary — ” 

“ Complimentary ? Yes ; but only to Miss Brunei, not to 
Rosalind. Don’t you see in every one of them how the writer, 
wishing to speak as highly as possible of her, scarcely knows how 
to throw cold water on the play ? And yet cold water is thrown 
abundantly. The unanimity of these critiques simply says this, 
that Miss Brunei’s Rosalind is a failure.” 

“ How will she bear it ?” said the count. 

“She will bear it with the self-possession and sweetness that 
always cling to her.” 

For a moment he thought of an old simile of his : of her be- 
ing like an JEolian harp, which, struck harshly or softly, by the 
north wind or the gentle south, could only breathe harmony in 
return. Would that fine perfection of composure still remain 
with her, now that her generous artistic aspirations seemed to 
have been crushed in some way? He knew himself — for the 
divine light of her face in certain moments had taught him — that 
there is no joy upon earth to be compared with the joy of artis- 
tic creation. He could imagine, then, that the greatest possible 
misery is that which results from strong desire and impotent 
faculty. 

“It is Rosalind that is wrong, not she,” he said. “Or she 
may be suffering from some indisposition ; at any rate, they may 
spare their half - concealed compassion. Let her get a part to 
suit her — and then !” 

He was not quite satisfied. How was it that none of the 
critics — and some of them were men of the true critical, sensi- 
tive temperament, quick to discern the subtle personal relations 
existing between an artist and his art — dwelt upon the point that 
the part was obviously unsuited to her? Indeed, did not every 
one who had seen her in divers parts know that there were few 
parts which were so obviously suited to her ? 

“ I know what it is !” said the count. “ There aren’t enough 
people returned to town to fill the theatre, and she has been dis- 
heartened.” And he already had some recklessly extravagant 
idea of filling the house with “paper” at his own expense. 

“ But there you read that the theatre was crammed,” said 
Will. 

“ True,” said the count, gravely. “ I hope there’s nobody 


HOME AGAIN. 


191 


whom she has refused to see, or something like that, has been 
bribing all the papers out of spite ?” 

“ The ) 7 do that only in French plays,” said Will. “ I should 
think it more likely that the girl has been put out of sorts by 
some private affliction. We shall see when we get home.” 

Then he reflected with a bitter pang that now he was debarred 
from ever approaching that too dear friend of his and asking 
about her welfare. Whatever she might be suffering, through 
private sorrow or public neglect, he could no longer go forward 
and offer a comforting hand and a comforting word. When he 
thought that this privilege was now monopolized by the big, well- 
meaning, blundering count, he was like to break his own resolve, 
and vow to go straight to her the moment his feet touched Eng- 
lish soil. 

They crossed the Channel during the day. When they arrived 
in London, towards the evening, Will drove straight to his cham- 
bers, and the count went home. 

“You won’t go down to St. Mary-Kirby,” the latter had said, 
“ to see that charming little Dove ? What a devilish fine woman 
she’ll make ! You ought to consider yourself a happy fellow.” 

“ It is too late,” said Will, “ to go down to-night. Besides, 
they don’t expect me until to-morrow.” 

So he went to his lodgings ; and there, having changed his 
dress, he found himself with the evening before him. He walk- 
ed round to his club, read one or two letters that awaited him, 
went up to the smoking-room and found not a human being in 
the place — nothing but empty easy-chairs, chess-board tables, di- 
shevelled magazines, and a prevailing odor of stale cigars — and 
then he went out and proceeded in the direction of the theatre 
in which Annie Brunei was at that moment playing. That goal 
had been uppermost in his thoughts ever since he left Calais pier 
in the morning. 

The tall, pale, muscular man — and people noticed that he had 
his right arm in a sling — who now paid his four or five shillings, 
walked up-stairs, and slunk into the back seat of the dress-circle, 
was as nervous and as much afraid of being seen as a school-boy 
thieving fruit. Perhaps it was the dread of seeing, as much as 
the fear of being seen, that made his heart beat; perhaps it was 
only expectation ; but he bethought himself that in the twilight 
of the back seats of the circle his figure would be too dusky to 


192 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


be recognized, especially by one who bad to loot — if she looked 
at all — over the strong glare of the foot-lights. 

The act-drop was down when he entered — the orchestra play- 
ing the last instalment of Offenbach’s confectionery music. The 
whole house was in the act of regarding two young ladies, dress- 
ed as little as possible in white silk, with wonderful complexions, 
towers of golden hair on their heads, and on their faces an as- 
sumed unconsciousness of being stared at, who occupied a box by 
themselves. The elder of them had really beautiful features of 
an old French type — the forehead low and narrow, the eyelids 
heavy, the eyes large, languid^ melancholy, the nose thin and a 
little retroussee, the mouth small, the lips thin and rather sad, the 
cheeks blanched and a trifle sunken, the line of the chin and neck 
magnificent. The beautiful, sad woman sat and stared wistfully 
at the glare of the gas ; sometimes smiling, in a cold way, to her 
companion, a plump, commonplace beauty of a coarse English 
type, who had far too much white on her forehead and neck. 
Together, however, they seemed to make a sufficiently pretty 
picture to provoke that stolid British gaze which has something 
of the idiot, but more of the animal, in it. 

When the curtain rose again, the spectators found themselves 
in Arden forest, with the duke and his lords before them ; and 
they listened to the talk of these poor actors as though they 
heard some creatures out of the other world converse. But from 
Will Anerley all the possibility of this generous delusion had fled. 
He shrunk back, lest some of the men might have recognized 
him, and might carry the intelligence of his presence to Annie 
Brunei. Perhaps the duke had just spoken to her; perhaps she 
was then looking on the scene from the wings. It was no lon- 
ger Arden forest to him. The perspective of the stream and of 
the avenues of the trees vanished, and he saw only a stained 
breadth of canvas that hid her from his sight. Was she walking 
behind that screen ? Could the actors on the stage see her in one 
of the entrances? And was it not a monstrous and inconceiva- 
ble thing that these poor, wretched, unambitious, and not very 
clean-shaven men were breathing the same atmosphere with her, 
that they sometimes touched her dress in passing, that her soft 
dark eyes regarded them ? 

You know that Rosalind comes into this forest of Arden 
weary, dispirited, almost broken-hearted, in company with the 


HOME AGAIN. 


193 


gentle Celia and the friendly Touchstone. As the moment ap- 
proached for her entrance, Anerley’s breath came and went all 
the quicker. Was she not now just behind that board or screen? 
What was the expression of her face ; and how had she borne 
up against the dull welcome that awaited her in England? He 
thought he should see only Rosalind when she came upon the 
stage — that Annie Brunei might now be standing in the wings, 
but that Rosalind only would appear before him. 

He never saw Rosalind at all. He suddenly became con- 
scious that Annie Brunei — the intimate companion who had sat 
beside him in long railway -journeys, who had taken breakfast 
with him, and played cards with him in the evening — had come 
out before all these people to amuse or interest them ; and that 
the coarse, and stupid, and vicious, and offensive faces that had 
been staring a few minutes ago at the two creatures in white silk 
were now staring in the same manner at her — at her who was his 
near friend. A wonderful new throb went through his heart at 
that thought — a throb that reddened his pale cheek. He saw 
no more of Rosalind, nor of Annie Brunei either. He watched 
only the people’s faces — watched them with eyes that had no 
pleasant light in them. Who were these people, that they dared 
to examine her critically, that they presumed to look on her with 
interest, that they had the unfathomable audacity to look at all ? 
He could not see the coster-mongers in the gallery ; but he saw 
the dress -coated publicans and grocers around him, and he re- 
garded their stupidly delighted features with a savage scorn. 
This spasm of ungovernable hatred for the stolid, good-hearted, 
incomprehensible British tradesman was not the result of intel- 
lectual pride, but the consequence of a far more powerful passion. 
How many years was it since Harry Ormond had sat in his box, 
and glared with a bitter fury upon the people who dared to ad- 
mire and applaud Annie Brunei’s mother? 

In especial there were two men, occupying a box by them- 
selves, against whom he was particularly vengeful. As he after- 
ward learned from Mr. Melton, they were the promoters of a 
company which sold the best port, sherry, champagne, hock, bur- 
gundy, and claret at a uniform rate of ten shillings a dozen ; and, 
in respect of their long advertisements, occasionally got a box 
for nothing through this or that newspaper. They were never 
known to drink their own wines, but they were partial to the gin 

9 


194 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


of the refreshment -room; and, after having drunk a sufficient 
quantity of that delicious and cooling beverage, they grew rather 
demonstrative. Your honest cad watches a play attentively; the 
histrionic cad assumes the part of those florid-faced gentlemen — 
mostly officers — who come down to a theatre after dinner, and 
laugh and joke during the progress of the piece, with their backs 
turned on the performers. A gentleman who has little brains, 
much loquacity, and an extra bottle of claret, is bad enough ; but 
the half-tipsy cad who imitates him is immeasurably worse. The 
two men in question, wishing to be considered “ d — d aristocrat- 
ic,” talked so as to be heard across the theatre, ogled the women 
with their borrowed opera-glasses instead of looking at the play, 
and burst forth with laughter at the “sentimental” parts. It 
was altogether an inspiriting exhibition, which one never sees out 
of England. 

And the gentle Rosalind, too, was conscious that these men 
were looking at her. How could it be Arden forest to her — how 
could she be Rosalind at all — if she was aware of the presence 
of such people, if she feared their inattention, and shrunk from 
their laugh ? 

“ What the papers have said about her is right,” said Will to 
himself. “ Something must have happened to dispirit her or up- 
set her, and she seems not to care much about the part.” 

The charm of her acting was there ; one could sit and watch 
with an extreme delight the artistic manipulation of those means 
which are obviously at the actor’s hand, but there was a subtle 
something wanting in the play. It was pretty and interesting 
while it lasted ; but one could have permitted it to drop at any 
moment without regret. 

There is, as everybody knows, a charming scene in the drama, 
in which Rosalind, disguised as a youth, coaxes Orlando to re^ 
veal all his love for her. There is in it every variety of coy 
bashfulness, and wayward fun, and half - suggested tenderness, 
which an author could conceive or the most accomplished actress 
desire to represent. When Orlando wishes he could convince 
this untoward page of his extreme love for Rosalind, the dis^ 
guised Rosalind says merrily, “ Me believe it ! You may as 
soon make her that you love believe it ; which, I warrant, she is 
apter to do, than to confess she does : that is one of the points in 
the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in 


HOME AGAIN. 


195 


good sooth,” she adds, suddenly changing her tone into tender, 
trustful entreaty, “ are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, 
wherein Rosalind is so admired?” And then again she asks, 
“ But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak ?” 

Rosalind turned the side of her face to her lover, as if her 
ear wished to drink in the sweet assurance ; and her eyes, which 
fronted the audience, stared vacantly before her, as if they too 
were only interested in listening; while a light, happy smile 
dawned upon her lips. Suddenly the eyes, vacantly gazing into 
the deep theatre, seemed to start into a faint surprise, and a dead- 
ly pallor overspread her face. She tried to collect herself — Or- 
lando had already answered : she stumbled, looked half wildly 
at him for a moment, and then burst into tears. The house was 
astonished, and then struck with a fit of admiration which ex- 
pressed itself in rounds of applause. To them it was no hysteri- 
cal climax to a long series of sad and solitary reveries, but a tran- 
scendent piece of stage effect. It was the over -excited Rosa- 
lind who had just then burst into tears of joy on learning how 
much her lover loved her. 

Orlando was for the moment taken aback ; but the applause 
of the people gave him time to recover himself, and he took her 
hand, and went on with the part as if nothing had happened. 
He and the people in the stage-boxes saw that her tears were real, 
and that she could scarcely continue the part for a sort of half- 
hysterical sobbing ; but the majority of those in the theatre were 
convinced that Annie Brunei was the greatest actress they had 
ever seen, and wondered why the newspapers had spoken so cold- 
ly of her performance. 

Will knew that she had seen him ; he had caught that swift, 
electric glance. But, not knowing any reason why the seeing 
him should produce such profound emotion, he, too, fancied that 
her bursting into tears was a novel and pretty piece of acting. 
However, for his own sake, he did not wish to sit longer there ; 
and so he rose and left. 

But the streets outside were so cold and dark, compared with 
Arden ! The chill night air, the gloomy shadows of the broad 
thoroughfare, the glare of gas-lamps on the pavement, and the 
chatter of cabmen, were altogether too great a change from 
Rosalind and the poetry -haunted forest. Nor could he bear 
the thought of leaving her there among those happy faces, in the 


196 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


warm and joyous atmosphere of romance, while he walked soli- 
tarily home to his solitary chambers. He craved for her society, 
and was content to share it with hundreds of strangers. Merely 
to look upon her face was such a delight to him that he yielded 
himself to it, irrespective of consequences. So he walked round 
to another entrance, and stole into a comer of the pit. 

Was the delight or the torture the greater? He was now 
within view of the rows of well-dressed men and women in the 
stalls, who seemed so pleased with Rosalind. It is one of the 
profound paradoxes of love, that, while making selfish men un- 
selfish and generous to a degree, it begets in the most unselfish of 
men an unreasoning and brutal self-regard. He hated them for 
their admiration. He hated them the more especially that their 
admiration was worth having. He hated them because their ad- 
miration was likely to please Annie Brunei. 

It might have been imagined that his anger would have been 
directed chiefly against those idiotic drapers’ assistants and clerks 
who sat and burlesqued the piece, and sneered at the actress. 
But no; it was the admiration of the intelligent and accom- 
plished part of the audience he feared : was it not sufficient to 
interpose between him and her a subtle barrier ? He could have 
wished that the whole theatre was hissing her, that so his homage 
and tenderness and respect might be accounted as of some worth. 
He fancied she was in love with the theatre, and he hated all 
those attractions of the theatre which caused her love with a pro- 
found and jealous hatred. 

At length the play came to an end, and there was no longer an 
excuse for his remaining, as Annie Brunei, of course, did not play 
in the short piece which followed. So he went outside, and in 
getting into the street he found himself behind the two wine- 
merchants who had been in the box. 

“ Why not ?” said the one to the other, gayly. “ If she gets 
into a rage, so much the better fun. Rosalind must be d — d 
pretty in a fury.” 

“ All right,” said the other, with a hiccough. 

Will had heard the words distinctly ; and the mere suspicion 
they suggested caused his blood to boil. When the two men 
turned into the narrow lane leading round to the stage-door of 
the theatre, he followed them with his mouth hard and firm, and 
his eyes not looking particularly amiable. 


HOME AGAIN. 


197 


At the entrance to the lane stood Miss Brunei’s cab. He rec- 
ognized the face of the venerable jarvie who was accustomed to 
wait for her every evening. 

He passed up the lane ; the two men had paused in front of 
the small wooden door, and were trying to decipher, by the aid of 
the lamp overhead, the features of whomsoever passed in or out. 

“ She won’t be here for an hour,” said one of them. 

“ Shouldn’t wonder if she went home in Rosalind’s dress,” said 
the other, with another hiccough. 

“ She’ll ’it you, ’Arry, if you speak to her.” 

“ Let her ! I’d rather like it, ’pon my soul !” 

The stage-door was continually being swung to and fro by 
some one passing in or out, but as yet there was no sign of An- 
nie Brunei. At length, however, some of the people who had 
been engaged in the play came out, and Will knew that she would 
soon follow. 

“Was she likely to be alone? Would they dare to speak to 
her ?” He glanced down at the sling which supported his right 
arm. Deprive an Englishman of the use of his right arm, and 
he feels himself utterly helpless. There was one happy thought, 
however : even if she were alone she would be closely veiled ; and 
how were these half-tipsy cads to recognize her ? 

She came out : she was alone, and veiled, but Will knew the 
graceful figure, and the carriage of the queenly head. 

By some demoniac inspiration the two men seemed also to 
take it for granted that the veiled face was that of Annie Brunei. 
The less tipsy of the two went forward, overtook her as she was 
going down the lane, and said to her, 

“ I beg your pardon, Miss — Miss Brunei — ” 

She turned her head, and in the gas-light Anerley saw that 
there was a quick, frightened look of interrogation in her eyes. 
She turned away again, and had hurried on almost to the open 
street, when the man caught her arm with his hand. 

“ Not so fast, my dear ! Won’t you look at my card?” 

“ Out of the way, idiot !” was the next thing she heard, in a 
voice that made her heart beat ; and in a moment the man had 
been sent reeling against the opposite wall. 

That was the work of an instant. Inflamed with rage and 
fury, he recovered himself, and was about to aim a blow at his 
assailant’s face, when Anerley’s left arm so successfully did duty 


198 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


without the aid of the wounded right one, that the man went 
down like a log, and lay there. His companion, stupefied, nei- 
ther stirred nor spoke. 

“ Get into the cab, Miss Brunei,” said Will, abruptly. 

He accompanied her across the pavement; an utter stranger 
could not have been more calm and cold. For a second she 
looked into his face, with pain and wonder and entreaty in her 
eyes ; and then she took his hand, which had been outstretched 
to bid her good-bye, and said : 

“Won’t you come with me? I — I am afraid — ” 

He got into the cab ; the driver mounted his box and drove 
off ; and so it was that Will, scarcely knowing how it had come 
about, found himself sitting once more beside Annie Brunei, with 
her hand still closed upon his. ' 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A LAST WORD. 

Every one knows Noel Paton’s “ Dante and Beatrice ” — the 
picture of the two lovers caught together in a supreme moment 
of passion — their faces irradiated with the magical halo of a glow- 
ing twilight ; his, tender, entreating, wistful, worshipful ; hers, 
full of the unconscious sweetness and superb repose of a rare and 
exalted beauty. His eyes are upturned to hers, but hers dwell 
vaguely on the western glow of color. And there is in the pict- 
ure more than one thing which suggests the strange dissociation 
and the sadness, as well as the intercommunion and fellowship, of 
the closest love. 

Why, asks the impatient reader, should not a romance be al- 
ways full of this glow, and color, and passion ? The warm light 
that touches the oval outline of a tender woman’s face is a beau- 
tiful thing, and even the sadness of love is beautiful : why should 
not a romance be full of these supreme elements? Why should 
not the romancist cut out the long prose passages of a man’s life, 
and give us only those wonderful moments in which being glows 
with a sort of transformation ? 

The obvious reason is, that a romance written in such an exalt- 


A LAST WORD. 


199 


ed key would be insufferably unreal and monotonous: even in 
tbe “Venetianiscbes Gondellied,” full of pure melody as it is, one 
finds jarring chords, which are only introduced to heighten the 
keen delight of the harmony which is to follow. Add to this the 
difficulty of setting down in words any tolerable representation 
of one of those passionate, joyous moments of love-delight which 
are the familiar theme of the musician and the painter. 

That moment, however, in which Will Anerley met Annie Bru- 
nei’s eyes, and took her hand, and sat down beside her, was one 
of these. For many past days and weeks his life had been so un- 
bearably dull, stagnant, prosaic, that the mere glad fact of this 
meeting drove from his mind all consideration of consequences. 
He looked in her eyes — the beautiful eyes that could not conceal 
their pleasure — and forgot everything else. For a time neither of 
them spoke — the delight of being near to each other was enough ; 
and when they began to recall themselves to the necessity of 
making some excuse to each other for having broken a solemn 
promise, they were driving along Piccadilly ; and, away down in 
the darkness, they could see the luminous string of orange points 
that encircle the Green Park. 

“ I only returned to London to-day,” he said, and there was a 
smile on his face, for he half pitied his own weakness ; “ and I 
could not help going to see you. That was how I kept my 
promise. But you are not very angry ?” 

“ No r ” she said, looking down. 

There was no smile upon her face. The events of the last few 
weeks had been for her too tragic to admit of humorous lights. 

“ You ought not to have come,” she said the next minute, hur- 
riedly. “You ought to have stayed away. You yourself spoke 
of what might happen; and the surprise and the pain of seeing 
you — I had no thought of your being there ; and I was sufficient- 
ly miserable at the time not to need any other thing to disturb 
me; and now — and now you are here, and you and I are the 
friends we have been — ” 

The passionate earnestness of this speech, to say nothing of its 
words, surprised and astounded him : why should she have reason 
to be disturbed ? 

“ Why should we not be friends ?” he said. 

She looked at him, with her big, tender, frank eyes, with a 
strange expression. 


200 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ You force me to speak. Because we cannot continue friends, 1 ' 
she said, in a voice which was almost harsh in its distinctness. 
“ After what you said to me, you have no right to see me. I 
cannot forget your warning ; and I know where you ought to be 
this evening — -not here, but down in St. Mary-Kirby.” 

“ That is true enough,” said Will, gloomily. “ I couldn’t have 
gone down to St. Mary-Kirby to-night ; but, as you say, I have no 
business to be near you — none whatever. I should not have gone 
to the theatre ; I ought to have stayed at home, and spent the 
time in thinking of you — why shouldn’t I say it, now that you 
have been so frank with me? You and I know each other pretty 
well, do we not? There is no reason, surely, why we may not 
regard each other as friends, whatever may happen. And why 
should I not tell you that I fear to go down to St. Mary-Kirby, 
and meet that poor Dove who has given me her heart ?” 

She said nothing : what could she say ? It was not for her to 
blame him. 

“ And when I went to the theatre, I said, ‘ It is the last time !’ 
I could not help going. I did not intend to meet you when you 
came out.” 

“ You did not ?” she said. 

There was, despite herself, a touch of disappointment in her 
tone. The strange, joyous light that had passed over her face on 
seeing him was the result of a sudden thought that he loved her 
so well that he was forced to come to her. 

“No,” he answered, “I did not intend to meet you; but the 
sudden pleasure of seeing you was so great that I had not the 
heart to refuse to come into the cab. And, now you know my 
secret, you may blame me as you please. I suppose I am weaker 
than other men ; but I did not err wilfully. And, now the thing 
is done, it is Dove whom I most consider. How can I go to her 
with a lie in every word, and look, and action ? Or how could I 
tell her the truth? Whichever way one turns, there is nothing 
but sadness and misery.” 

And still there was no word from the young girl opposite. 

“ I have not even the resource of blaming destiny,” he contin- 
ued. “ I must blame my own blindness. Only you, looking at 
these things in your friendly and kindly way, will not blame me 
further for having indulged myself a last time in going to see 
you to-night. You will never have to complain again — never; 


A LAST WORD. 


201 


and, indeed, I went to-night in a manner to bid you good-bye— 
so you won’t be hard on me — ” 

He was surprised to see, by the gleam of the lamp they passed, 
that the girl was covertly sobbing, and that the large soft eyes 
were full of tears. At the same moment, however, the cabman 
pulled up at the corner of the little square in which Annie Brunei 
lived, and so they both got out. When Will turned from pay- 
ing the cabman, she had walked on a bit in advance, and had not 
entered the square. He overtook her, and offered her his arm. 
The night was fine and still ; a large lambent planet lay like a 
golden bell-flower in the soft purple before them, and a large har- 
vest-moon, bronzed and discolored, glimmered through the tall 
elms on the other side of the way, as it slowly rose up from the 
horizon. 

“ I have something to say to you,” he heard the soft, low voice 
say, “which I had hoped never to have said. It is better it 
should be said.” 

“ If you have cause to blame me, or if you wish to prevent my 
seeing you again, by upbraiding me for having spoken honestly 
to you, I beg of you to say nothing that way. It is not needed. 
You will run no danger whatever of being annoyed again. I 
blame myself more than you can ; and since we must part, let us 
part friends, with a kindly recollection of each other.” 

“ Don’t speak like that !” she said, imploringly, with another con- 
vulsive sob, “ or you will break my heart. Is it not enough that — 
that — oh ! I cannot, cannot tell you, and yet I must tell you !” 

“ What have you to tell me ?” he said, with a cold feeling creep- 
ing over him. He began to suspect what her emotion meant; 
and he shrunk from the suggestion, as from some great evil he 
had himself committed. 

“You will think me shameless; I cannot help it. You say 
this is our last meeting ; and I cannot bear to have you go away 
from me with the thought that you have to suffer alone. You 
think I ought to give you my sympathy, because I am your friend, 
and you will not be happy. But — but I will suffer too ; and I 
am a woman — and alone — and whom have I to look to — ?” 

He stopped her, and looked down into her face. 

“ Annie, is this true ?” he said, sadly and gravely. 

He got no answer beyond the sight of her streaming eyes and 
quivering lips. 


9 * 


202 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Then are we the two wretchedest of God’s creatures,” he said. 

“Ah, don’t say that,” she murmured, venturing to look up at 
him through her tears. “ Should we not be glad to know that 
we can think kindly of each other, without shame? Unhappy, 
yes ! — but surely not the very wretchedest of all. And you won’t 
misunderstand me ? You won’t think, afterward, that it was be 
cause I was an actress that I confessed this to you ?” 

Even in such a moment a touch of Bohemianism ! — a fear that 
her mother’s profession should suffer by her weakness. 

“ Dearest !” he said, tenderly — “ for you are, God help me ! my 
very, very dearest — we now know each other too well to have to 
make excuses for our confidence in each other.” 

They walked on now quite silently; there was too much for 
both of them to think about to admit of speech. As they walked 
southward, down the long and sombre thoroughfares, the large 
moon on their left slowly rose, and still rose, at every minute los- 
ing its ruddy hues, and gaining in clear, full light. They knew 
not whither they were going. There was no passer-by to stare 
at them ; they were alone in the world, with the solitary houses, 
and the great moon. 

“ You have not told me a minute too soon,” he said, suddenly, 
with a strange exultation in his tone. 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ You and I, Annie, love each other. If the future is to be 
taken from us, let us recompense ourselves now. When you 
walk back to your house to-night, and the door closes, you and I 
see each other no more. To-morrow, and all the to-morrows after 
that, we are only strangers. But for the next half-hour — my 
dearest, my dearest ! show me your face, and let me see what 
your eyes say ! — why should we not forget all these coming days, 
and live that half-hour for ourselves ? It is but a little time ; the 
sweetness of it will be a memory to us. Let us be lovers, Annie ! 
— only for this little time we shall be together, my dearest ! Let 
us try to imagine that you and I are to be married to-morrow — 
that all the coming years we are to be together — that now we 
have nothing to do but to yield ourselves up to our love — ” 

“ I am afraid,” she said, in a low voice, trembling. 

“ Why afraid, then ?” 

“ That afterward the recollection will be too bitter.” 

“Darling, nothing that you can imagine is likely to be more 


A LAST WORD. 


203 


bitter than what you and I must bear. Just now, we have a lit' 
tie time our own ; let us forget what is to come, and — ” 

“ Whisper, then,” she said. 

He bent down his head to her, and she came close to his ear : 

“ Will, I love you , and if I could I would be your wife to-mor- 
row /” 

“ And you will kiss me, too,” he said. 

He felt a slight warm touch on his lips; and when he raised 
his head his face was quite white, and his eyes were wild. 

“ Why, we are to be married to-morrow !” he said. “ It will 
be about eleven when I reach the church, and I shall walk up and 
down between the empty pews until you come. I see the whole 
thing now — you walking in at the door with your friends, your 
dear eyes a little frightened, looking at me as if you wanted me 
to take you away at once from among the people. Then we shall 
be off, dearest, sharp and fast, up to your house you will hurry 
to change your things, and then, with a good-bye to everybody, 
we are off — we two, you and I, Annie, away anywhere, so that 
we may be alone together. And I wish to God, Annie, that 
you and I were lying down there beneath that water, dead and 
drowned !” 

They had come to the river — the broad, smooth river, with the 
wonderful breadths of soft light upon it, and the dark olive-green 
shadows of the sombre wharves and buildings on the other side. 

“ Will, Will, you frighten me so !” she said, clinging to his arm. 

“You needn’t be frightened,” he said, sadly. “I am only tell- 
ing you what might happen. Can’t you see all these things when 
you try to see them? For many a night past — ever since the 
evening we spent overlooking the Rhine — I have seen that mar- 
riage-scene before my eyes, and it is always you who are there. 
You remember that evening when you sat up in the balcony, 
among the vine-leaves, with the moon hanging up over the river ? 
There's a German song I once heard that warns you never to go 
near the Rhine, because life is too sweet there ; and we have been 
there, and have received the curse of this discontent and undying 
regret.” 

Then he broke out into a bitter laugh. 

“ We were to be lovers ; and this is pretty lovers’ talk.” 

“ You really do frighten me, Will,” she said. “ I never saw 
you look so before. Oh, my dear, don’t be so very, very sad and 


204 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


despairing, for I have nothing to comfort you with — not even 
one poor word ; and it seems so wretched that we two should 
not be able to comfort each other.” 

He was fighting with the bonds of circumstance, and his im- 
potence embittered him. The spectacle of these two wretched 
creatures — despairing, rebellious, and driven almost beyond the 
bounds of reason by their perplexity — walking along the side of 
the still and peaceful stream, was one to have awakened the com- 
passion, or at least the sympathetic merriment, of the most care- 
less of the gods. What a beautiful night it was ! The deep 
olive shadows of the moonlight hid away the ragged and tawdry 
buildings that overhung the river; and the flood of yellow- 
tinged light touched only here and there on the edge of a bank 
or the stem of a tree, and then fell gently on the broad bosom of 
the stream. The gas-lamps of the nearest bridge glimmered palely 
in that white light ; but deep in the shadows along the river the 
lamps burned strong and red, and sent long quivering lines of 
fire down into the dark water beneath. Farther up the stream 
lay broad swathes of moonlight, vague and indeterminate as the 
gray continents visible in the world of silver overhead. In all 
this universe of peace and quiet and harmony there seemed to 
be only these two beings, restless, embittered, and hopeless. 

“Let us go home,” he said, with an effort. “I can do noth- 
ing but frighten you, and myself too. I tell you there are other 
things pass before my eyes as well as the marriage-scene, and I 
don’t want to see any more of them. It will be time enough to 
think of what may happen when it does happen.” 

“And whatever happens, Will, shall we not at least know that 
we sometimes — occasionally — think tenderly of each other ?” 

“ So you wish us to be lovers still !” he said. “ The delusion 
is too difficult to keep up. Have you reflected that when once I 
am married, neither of us may think of each other at all?” 

“Will! Will! don’t talk like that! You speak as if some- 
body had cruelly injured you, and you were angry and revenge- 
ful. Nobody has done it. It is only our misfortune. It cannot 
be helped. If I am not to think of you — and I shall pray God 
to help me to forget you — so much the better.” 

“ My poor darling !” he said, “ I am so selfish that I think less 
of what your future may be than of my own. You dare not con- 
fide your secret to any one ; and I, who know it, must not see you 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


205 


nor try to comfort you. Is not the very confidence that prompt- 
ed you to tell me a proof that we are — that we might have been 
happy as husband and wife ?” 

“ Husband and wife,” she repeated, musingly, as they once 
more drew near home. “ You will be a husband, but I shall never 
he a wife.” 

“And yet, so long as you and I live,” he said, quite calmly, 
“ you will have my whole love. It cannot be otherwise : we need 
not seek to conceal it. Whatever happens, and wherever we 
may be, my love goes with you.” 

“ And if mine,” she whispered, “ could go with you, and watch 
over you, and teach your heart to do right, it would lead your 
love back to the poor girl whom you are going to marry, and 
make her happy.” 

At parting he kissed her tenderly, almost solemnly. Then she 
quickly undid from her neck a little brooch, and put it in his 
hand with these words : 

“ Give that to her, with my love, and with yours” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

EVIL TIDINGS. 

Very early did Dove get up, that cool September morning. 
Away down the valley there lay a faintly yellow haze, which 
made one feel that the sun was behind it, and would soon drink it 
up. In the mean time the grass was wet. A birch-tree that al- 
most touched her bedroom window had its drooping branches of 
shivering leaves glistening with moisture. The willows along the 
river-side were almost hidden. The withered and red chestnut- 
leaves which floated on the pond had a cold, autumn look about 
them. Then old Thwaites, the keeper, appeared, with a pointer 
and a curly black retriever ; and when the old man went into the 
meadow, to knock down some walnuts from the trees, his breath 
was visible in the damp, thick atmosphere. She saw these things 
vaguely ; she only knew with certainty that the sunlight and Will 
were coming. 

A hundred times she made up her mind as to the mood in 


206 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


which she ought to receive him. Indeed, for weeks back she 
had done nothing but mentally rehearse that meeting ; and every 
scene that she described to herself was immediately afterward 
abandoned. 

She was hurt, she knew; and in her secret heart she longed 
to — No ! he had been very neglectful about letters, and she 
would — But in the mean time it was important, whatever role 
she might assume, that she should look as pretty as possible. 

This was all her immediate care — a care that had awoke her 
an hour too soon. But if she had changed her mind about the 
manner in which she should receive him, how much more about 
the costume which was to add effect to the scene ! Every detail 
— every little ornament, and bit of ribbon, and dexterous fold — 
she studied and altered, and studied and altered again, until she 
was very nearly losing temper, and wishing that people had 
been born to look their best without the necessity of clothing 
themselves. 

Perhaps one might be allowed to make a remark about those 
ladies who, dressing for a ball or the theatre, imagine that the 
less they clothe themselves the better they look. It is merely a 
question of the relative artistic value of certain surfaces. And, 
as a general rule, it may be accepted that the natural complexion 
of women’s shoulders is inferior in fineness of hue and texture to 
the same extent of white satin or dove-colored silk. 

Down-stairs she went. Mr. Anerley was engaged in turning 
in the edge of his cartridges, and had succeeded in vigorously 
scratching the marble mantel -piece with the machine he was 
using. 

“ Good-morning, papa.” 

She was very much embarrassed, she did not know why. She 
hoped he would not look at her ; but he did, and kissed her, and 
returned to his work. 

“ Dear me 1” he said, “ that I, an old man, should have received 
such a compliment ! A young lady getting up at a prodigiously 
early hour, and dressing herself in her very smartest way, in or- 
der to come down and make my breakfast !” 

“ Shall I pour out your coffee now, papa ?” she said, with a 
great blush. 

“ Yes, you may, my dear. But don’t put anchovy into it in- 
stead of cream. I make the suggestion because I see you are a 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


207 


little disturbed. It is the early rising; or tbe cbill of tbe au- 
tumn ; or the remembrance of last Sunday’s sermon, I dare say.’' 

She did not speak a word, but placed the coffee at his end of 
the table, and returned to her seat. When he had finished his 
cartridge-making, he sat down, and, as a preliminary to breakfast, 
swallowed a mouthful of the coffee. The next moment there 
was an exclamation of horror — he ran to the sideboard, seized a 
bottle of hock that had been left from yesterday’s dinner, hur- 
riedly filled a coffee-cup with the wine, and drank off the con- 
tents — his face all the while in contortions. Dove sat silent and 
wilful, with a smile on her lips and a hot flush on her cheeks. 
She would neither look at him nor speak to him. 

“ Cayenne pepper !” he gasped, taking another gulp of the cold 
Rhine wine. 

She only played with her tea-spoon. 

“ You might have killed me, you malicious creature !” he cried, 
amidst intervals of coughing. “ Cayenne ! Well, don’t suppose 
that you would have got much out of my life-insurance !” 

At this she rose and walked to the door — proud, spiteful, half 
laughing, and half crying. 

“ You had no business to tease me,” she said. 

“ Come here, Dove,” he said, taking her by the arm and lead- 
ing her back ; “ do you know what the effect of cayenne is on 
the human throat ?” 

“ I don’t care.” 

“ I say you might have killed me.” 

“ I don’t care.” 

“ Now, if I were a young man, I should probably be proud of 
such a mark of your favor, but — ” 

“ It served you right. I can’t bear people to talk to me like 
that; and you always do it, papa — you know you do.” 

“ But, as I am an old man, I mean to have my revenge. First- 
ly, there shall be no dog-cart or other vehicle leave this house this 
day for Horton Station. Secondly, should any guest arrive, be 
will be asked to follow me over to the East Meadows, where I 
shall be shooting. Thirdly, should that guest dine with us, he 
will be confined to the dining-room during the entire evening, 
and any persons waiting in the drawing - room may play ‘ The 
Coulin,’ or such music as they prefer, for their own benefit. 
Fourthly- — ” 


208 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Fourthly, none of these things will happen,” said Dove, with 
a touch of contempt in her tone. 

And Dove was right. For she herself was driven in the dog- 
cart over to Horton Station, and she took care to make the man 
start half an hour before the proper time. The station - master, 
then and now one of the civillest of men, endeavored to relieve 
the tedium of waiting by chatting to her; but she only half lis- 
tened to him, and talked nonsense in reply. 

She walked about the station, stared up the long perspective 
of narrowing lines, then walked in again to the small waiting- 
room, and wondered why the people about did not bestir them- 
selves to receive the coming train. Then, with a flutter of the 
heart, she saw the signals changed, and presently there was a far- 
ofl noise which told of Will’s approach ; for he had written from 
Paris to say that, unless they got other notice from him, he would 
be down by this particular train. 

A railway-station is not the proper place for a piece of acting. 
Scenes of the most tender and tragic kind — never to be forgotten 
— have been witnessed there; but the gentle drawing-room com- 
edies with which lovers amuse themselves do not harmonize with 
the rough-and-ready accessories of a railway line. Dove resolved 
to leave her proper reception of Will until they should be in 
the house together ; at present it was to be nothing but a hur- 
ried, delicious kissing, scrambling after luggage, and swift getting 
home. 

There was no head thrust out from one of the approaching 
carriages — no handkerchief waved. She did not know which of 
the dull, dark, and heavy carriages might not have him inside; 
but she was sure he could not escape her at the station. 

The train stopped, the guard bustled about, the people descend- 
ed from the carriages, the porters looked out for luggage and six- 
pences. With a half-realized fear — a dread of some vague evil 
— Dove glanced quickly along the people, then more narrowly ; 
finally she turned to the carriages. The doors were again shut, 
the guard blew his whistle and leisurely stepped into his box, and 
the train moved slowly out of the station. There was no Will 
Anerley there. 

Sick at heart, she turned away. It was a cruel disappoint- 
ment. For weeks she had been planning the whole scene ; she 
had dreamed of the meeting, had thought of it during the drowsy 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


209 


nush of the Sunday -morning sermon, had looked forward to it as 
the crowning compensation for the microscopic troubles of her 
daily life. There was not even a letter to say that he was in Eng- 
land ; perhaps he was still in France. 

So she went home, vexed, and disappointed, and sad. Mr. An- 
erley was out shooting ; Mrs. Anerley soothingly said that doubt- 
less Will would be down by a later train ; and then Dove went 
away into a corner of the drawing-room, and plunged herself into 
a volume of old music, turning over the leaves and supping a sur- 
feit of sad memories. 

Before going to the train that morning, Will had found it nec- 
essary to call upon a doctor. From him he learned, firstly, that 
the original dressing of the wounds in his arm had been far from 
satisfactory ; and, secondly, that owing to some disturbant cause 
renewed inflammation had set in. Indeed, the doctor gave him 
to understand that only prompt attention and great care could 
prevent the wounds assuming a very serious aspect. 

“Your arm must have suffered some violence quite recently,” 
said the doctor. 

“ Well, last night,” said Will, “ I knocked a man down with 
my left arm, and very likely I instinctively twitched up the right 
to guard myself.” 

“ These are little amusements which a man in your condition 
had better forego,” said the other, quietly. “ The best thing you 
can do is, go home and get to bed, give your arm perfect rest, and 
I will call in the afternoon and see what is to be done.” 

“ I can’t do that,” said Will, “ I’m going down to the coun- 
try.” 

“You will do so at your peril.” 

“All the same, I must go. Nothing is likely to happen be- 
tween to-day and Monday. If you had seen the leg I had in 
Turkey ! — without any doctor but a servant who could not even 
infuse our tea — constant rain — walking every day — our tent let- 
ting in water at night — ” 

“ I don’t know about your leg in Turkey,” said the doctor, 
tartly; “but I see the condition in which your arm is now. If 
you think it will get well by exposing it to rain, well and good — ” 

“ Can you do anything to it now 

“ No, unless you give the limb perfect rest.” 

“ Very well. If it gets very bad, I shall come up to town to- 


210 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


morrow. If not, I shall visit you on Monday, and do everything 
you tell me then.” 

He got into a cab and drove back to his chambers. The man 
had already taken his portmanteau down -stairs, when Count 
Schon stein’s brougham drove up, and the count jumped out. 

“ Where are you going ?” 

“To St. Mary-Kirby.” 

“ Not now. Come inside ; I have something to tell you.” 

They stepped inside; never before had Will observed the 
count to be so disturbed. 

“Miall & Welling,” he said, hurriedly, “I have just heard — 
not ten minutes ago — have collapsed : the announcement will be 
made to-day : the directors were in the place till twelve last night. 
It will be the most fearful crash, they say ; for the bank has late- 
ly been making the wildest efforts to save itself.” 

“ I thought Miall & Welling’s was as safe as the Bank of Eng- 
land,” said Will, just a trifle pale. 

Every farthing of his father’s money was in this bank, which 
had never even been suspected in the most general crises. 

“ It may be only a rumor,” continued the count. “ But you 
may as well wait, to see if the evening papers have anything 
about it.” 

“ It will be a pretty story to carry down with me to Kent !” 
said Will. 

“That’s what I was thinking of,” said the count, kindly — in- 
deed, he was not wholly a selfish man ; “ and I thought I might 
go down with you, if you liked, and try to help your father over 
the first shock. It will be a terrible blow to him — a man who 
has lived a quiet and easy life, with a little hunting, and shooting, 
and so on. I shouldn’t wonder if it entirely upset him and did 
some harm — ” 

“ You don’t know my father,” said Will. 

They had not to wait for the evening papers. By twelve 
o’clock the news was current in the City. Miall & Welling had 
sent out their circular : the bank had suspended payment. 

This was the cause of Will’s missing the train. When he took 
his seat in the next train going down, it was with a feeling that 
now ill-fortune had done its worst, and there was nothing more 
to encounter. He thought of that wild scene of last night by the 
banks of the river — of the strange, sad, unfathomable look of the 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


211 


young actress’s eyes — of their bitter parting, and the tender 
words she spoke as he left. Then he looked forward to meeting 
Dove with a cold fear at his heart ; and he was almost glad that 
the more immediate and terrible business he had on hand would 
distract his attention. 

He left his portmanteau at the station, and walked round to 
the brow of the hill. Before him lay the well-known valley, still 
and silent under the yellow autumn sunlight ; and down there by 
the river he saw a tall spare man, accompanied by another man 
and a couple of dogs, whose figure he easily recognized. He 
walked in that direction, crossing the low-lying meadows and the 
river, and rounding a bit of coppice which skirted a turnip-field. 

As he turned the corner, a covey of birds rose just in front of 
him, with a prodigious whir of wings. 

“ Mark !” he called, instinctively, though he was quite unaware 
of the proximity of anybody with a gun. 

The next second there was a double report; two of the birds 
came tumbling down, scattering their feathers in the air, and there 
was a muttered admonition to the pointer. A few steps farther 
brought him into view of Mr. Anerley and old Thwaites, both of 
whom were marking down the remaining birds of the covey, as 
the low, swift, sailing flight seemed to near the ground. 

“ Why did you come round that way ?” said Mr. Anerley, when 
he saw his son. “ I might have shot you.” 

“ I shouldn’t have minded, sir,” said Will. “ I’m getting used 
to it.” 

“You have your arm in a sling yet? I thought it was all 
right.” 

“ The doctor pulls long faces over it. I fancy the man in the 
Black Forest bungled it.” 

“If the Black - Foresters don’t know how to cure men shot 
by mistake, they ought to,” said Mr. Anerley, with a thoroughly 
English contempt for any kind of shooting but his own. “ Such 
a set of sparrow-shooting shoemakers I never saw. I suppose I 
needn’t offer you my gun ?” 

“ No, thank you. I’ll walk down the turnips with you, on my 
way to the house.” 

There was little left in the turnips, however. A solitary bird 
got up, almost out of shot, and Mr. Anerley knocked him over 
very cleverly. There was no smile of triumph, however, on the 


212 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


firm-set lips of the tall, keen-faced, gray-haired sportsman. He 
quietly put another cartridge into the barrel and walked on, occa- 
sionally growling at the dog, which was continually making false 
points. Almost at the end of the turnips the dog made a very 
decided point. 

“Ware lark! gr-r-r-r!” cried old Thwaites; and at the same 
instant, a fine covey of birds, startled by the cry, got up out of 
shot. The dog had really been on the scent of the partridges. 

Mr. Anerley said nothing, but he did not look particularly 
pleased. 

“ If that had not been old Thwaites,” muttered Will, “I should 
have said it was an old fool.” 

So Will walked on to Chestnut Bank. He had not the heart 
to tear the old man away from his favorite sport in order to give 
him this bad news. After dinner, he now thought, would be 
time enough ; and he himself seemed to have gained a respite 
until then. 

But if he was in the mean while relieved from the necessity of 
bearing the evil tidings to his father, there remained his meeting 
with Dove, which he had for long looked forward to with a half- 
conscious fear. As he drew near the house, he began to think 
this the greater trial of the two. 

Dove, still sitting in the drawing-room, heard footsteps on the 
gravelled pathway leading down through the garden. The music 
almost dropped from her hands as she listened intently for a mo- 
ment — then a flush of joyous color stole over her face. But, all 
the same, she opened the book again, and sat obstinately looking 
at pages which she did not see. 

“ Dove,” said Will, tapping at the French window, “ open and 
let me in.” 

No answer — Dove still intently regarding the music. 

So he had to go on to the hall-door, ring the bell, and enter the 
drawing-room from the passage. 

“ Oh, you are come back again !” said Dove, with mimic sur- 
prise, and with admirably simulated carelessness. 

She held out her hand to him. She fancied he would be 
dreadfully astonished and perturbed by this cold reception — that 
they would have a nice little quarrel, and an explanation, and all 
the divine joys of making -up, before Mrs. Anerley could come 
down from the apple-closet, in which she had been engaged since 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


213 


breakfast-time. But, on the contrary, Will was neither surprised 
nor disturbed. He looked quite grave, perhaps a little sad, and 
took her hand, saying kindly, 

“Yes, back again. I hope you have been well while I was 
away, Dove ; and that you amused yourself.” 

Dove was alarmed ; he had not even offered to kiss her. 

“ What is the matter with you, Will ?” she said, with a vague 
fear in her pretty violet eyes. 

“ Why, nothing much.” 

“ Is it I, then ? Are you vexed with me, that you should be so 
cold with me after being away so long a time ?” 

There she stood, with her eyes downcast, a troubled look on 
her face, and both her hands pulling to pieces a little engraving 
she held. 

“ Why should I be vexed with you, Dove ?” he said, putting his 
hand on her shoulder. He dared not kiss her : there dwelt on his 
lips yet the memory of that sad leave-taking of the night before. 

“ Then why are you and I standing here like strangers ?” she 
said, stamping her little foot. 

She could not tell how things had all gone wrong; but they 
had gone wrong; and the meeting she had looked forward to 
with such pleasurable anticipation was an embarrassing failure. 

At this moment Mrs. Anerley entered, and the girl saw her re- 
ceive the kiss which had been denied to herself. 

“You are not looking well, Will,” said the observant mother. 
“ Is your arm healing rightly ?” 

“ Oh yes, well enough.” 

“ You are fatigued, then. Let me bring you some sherry.” 

She left the room, and then Dove — looking hesitatingly for a 
moment — ran forward to him, and buried her face in his bosom 
and burst into tears. 

“ It was all my fault, dear,” she sobbed. “ I wanted to be an- 
gry with you, for not coming down by the first train — and — and 
I thought you would pet me, and make it up, you know ; and I 
even forgot to ask about your arm ; but it wasn’t, dear, because I 
didn’t think of it.” 

“ There, it’s all right,” he said. “ I didn’t notice you were 
vexed with me, or I should have made friends with you at once. 
There, now, you’re only ruffling all your pretty hair, and such a 
delicate little collar you’ve got !” 


214 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Oh !” she said, with smiles breaking through her tears, “ you 
don’t know what I have been making for you.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Twenty times I was near telling you in my letters; but I 
stopped. I tried to get it done, to give it you to-day, but I 
couldn’t; and — and perhaps it was that made me vexed with 
you.” 

“ Very likely,” said Will, who thoroughly understood the 
charming by-ways of Dove’s logic. 

“ It is a worsted waistcoat,” she said, in a solemn whisper, “ all 
knitted by myself. And I’ve put in some of my hair, so that 
you never could see it unless I showed it to you. They say that 
to give any one some of your hair is so unlucky — that it always 
means parting ; but I couldn’t help putting in just a little.” 

“ To represent a little parting — from Saturday to Monday, for 
example.” 

“ Are you going up to town again to-morrow ?” she said, with 
fresh alarm. 

“ The doctor says I ought ; but we shall see when to-morrow 
comes.” 

So peace was established between them. It was only as an 
after -thought she remembered that he had never once kissed 
her. 

During dinner Will was almost silent. They supposed he was 
tired with the journey home. When Mrs. Anerley and Dove had 
left the room, he knew the time was come. 

“ I have bad news for you, father,” he said. 

“ Out with it, then,” said Mr. Anerley. “ Everybody in the 
house is well in health ; anything else does not much matter.” 

“ Miall & Welling are down.” 

The old man put back his wineglass on the table. 

“ Miall & Welling’s bank is down ?” he said, slowly. 

“Yes.” 

“ Are you sure of it ?” 

“ There is their circular.” 

He read the paper carefully, and laid it down. 

“ They say,” said Will, “ that their affairs are in a terrible 
plight — quite hopeless.” 

“ That means that I have not a farthing of money beyond what 
is in the house.” 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


215 


He remained silent for several minutes, Ids eyes fixed on the 
table before him. Then he said, 

“Very well. There are four of us. If we two men cannot 
support ourselves and these two women, should not every one 
have a right to laugh at us ?” 

“ But that you, at your age — ” 

“ My age ? I am in the prime of life. Indeed, it is time I did 
something, to show that I could have earned my own bread all 
along.” 

“ I’m glad you look at it in that way,” said Will, rather sadly. 
“ Here am I, unable to earn a penny until my arm gets better. 
You know nothing specially of any business — ” 

“It is not too late to learn, my lad. There are plenty of 
things to which I could turn my hand. Imagine what a capital 
keeper I should be ; and how I should overawe the trembling 
Cockneys invited down to a grand battue into giving me mon- 
strous tips ! Now let us look at the thing in another light.” 

He straightened himself up, as if throwing some weight off his 
shoulders. Then he relapsed into his old manner, and there was 
a sort of sad smile on his face. 

“Edmond About,” he said, “declares that all men are pro- 
ducers, and have therefore a right to the property they possess, 
except robbers, beggars, and gamblers. Doubtless the money I 
possessed was very valuable to the people to whom I lent it, and 
they paid me for putting its working powers at their disposal. 
You understand?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I was, in that sense, a producer, and had a right to the mon- 
ey on which I lived. M. About tells me that I had. But, in 
spite of that, I was always bothered by an uneasy conviction that 
the ancestor of mine who brought the money into the family 
could not have made it by his own hands. Indeed, I am con- 
vinced that my rich progenitor — who, let us say, came over with 
William — was nothing else than a prodigious thief, who either 
stole money in the shape of taxes, or the means of making 
money in the shape of land, from the people who then owned it. 
I therefore, you see, have no right to the possession of money 
acquired by robbery.” 

“ You only discover that when the money is gone,” said Will, ac- 
customed to his father’s philosophic and easy way of taking things. 


216 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“Not at all. I have for some time back been proud to class 
myself among the richest and oldest families of England, in re- 
gard to the moral shadiness of our right to live on the produce 
of gigantic thievery. You see — ” 

“ I see, sir, that the moment you lose your money, you become 
a philosophic Radical.” 

“ Ah, well,” said Mr. Anerley, sending a sigh after his vanished 
riches, “ I don’t think the misfortune has touched us much, when 
we can transfer it into the region of first principles. Perhaps 
I had better go up to town with you to-morrow, and see what 
practical issues it must lead to.” 

“And in the mean time,” said Will, “don’t tell either of the 
women.” 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

THE COUNT’S CHANCE. 

“ Where is Mr. Melton ?” asked the count. 

“ Up in the ‘ flies,’ sir, I believe,” said the prompter. “ Shall I 
send for him ?” 

“ No, I shall go up to him,” said the count. 

It was on the evening of the day on which he had told Will 
of Miall & Welling’s downfall. After having ascertained the 
truth of the report, he had gone to spend the remainder of the 
day at his club, in talking, reading, and dining ; and when he did 
think of going round to the theatre, he found that the piece in 
which Annie Brunei played would be over, and she gone home 
This was as he wished. 

So he made his way up the well-worn wooden steps until he 
reached the “ flies,” where he found Mr. Melton, seated on the 
drum which rolled up the drop-scene, in earnest talk with a car- 
penter. On seeing the count, the man walked away, and Mr. Mel- 
ton rose. 

“Welcome back to England!” said the manager, rather ner- 
vously. “ I have been most anxious to see you.” 

“ Ah,” said the count. 

“ Indeed, the strangest thing has happened — completely floor- 


THE COUNT’S CHANCE. 


217 


ed me — never heard the like,” continued Mr. Melton, hurriedly. 
“ Have you seen Miss Brunei ?” 

“ No,” said the count. 

“ Not since you returned ?” 

“ No.” 

“You are not acquainted with her resolution?” 

“No” 

“ Then let me tell you what happened not half an hour ago in 
this very theatre. You see that scenery? It’s all new. The 
dresses are new, new music, new decorations, a new theatre, and — 
d — n it all, it’s enough to make a man mad !” 

“But what is it?” asked the count of the abnormally excited 
manager. 

“ A few minutes ago Miss Brunei comes to me and says, ‘ Mr. 
Melton, a word with you.’ ” 

“ ‘ Certainly,’ said I. 

“ Then she turned a little pale ; and had that curious look in 
her eyes that she used to wear on the stage, you know ; and 
said, clearly, ‘ I am not going to act any more.’ 

“When I had recovered breath, I said, 

“ ‘ Pardon me, Miss Brunei ; you must. Look at the expense 
I have been put to in getting up this revival — ’ 

“And then she grew excited, as if she were half mad, and im- 
plored me not to compel her to fulfil her engagement. She said 
her acting was a failure ; that everybody knew it was a failure ; 
that she had an invincible repugnance to going on the stage 
again ; and that nothing would tempt her to begin a new piece, 
either with me or with anybody else. I can assure you, Count 
Schonstein, now that I think over it, there never was a finer 
scene in any play than she acted then — with her despair, and her 
appeals, and her determination. I thought at first she was be- 
witched; and then I declare she was so nearly on the point of 
bewitching me, that I was almost agreeing to everything she 
asked, only — ” 

“Only what?” 

“ Only I remembered that the theatre was not only my own 
affair, and that I had no business to compromise its interests by 
— you understand ?” 

“Quite right — quite right,” said the count, hastily. “And 
then?” 


10 


218 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“Then she left.” 

“But what — what is the reason of her wishing to leave the 
stage ?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Had she heard any — any news, for example ?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Why, Melton, what a fellow you are !” cried the count, peevish- 
ly. “ I’m sure you could easily have found out, if you cared, what 
she meant by it.” 

“ I tell you I was quite dumfoundered — ” 

“ And she said nothing about any news — or her prospects — oi 
a change — ?” 

“ Nothing. From what she said, I gathered that she had come 
to dislike acting, and that she was convinced her future career 
would be wretched, both for herself and the house. You have 
never asked me about the theatre at all. The first two or three 
nights the curiosity of people to see her in the new part gave 
us some good business; but now the papers have changed their 
tune, and the public — ” 

Mr. Melton shrugged his shoulders ; but Count Schonstein was 
paying no attention to him. 

“ If she has discovered the secret ,” he was reasoning with him- 
self, “ she would be in no such desperate hurry to leave the stage. 
If she has not , now is the time for me” 

“ Melton,” he said, “ what would be a reasonable forfeit if she 
broke her engagement?” 

“ I don’t know. I should say two hundred pounds. She said 
she could not offer me compensation in money, and that’s why 
she begged so hard of me for the favor. God knows, if I could 
afford it, and were my own master, I should not make the poor 
creature keep to her engagement. Look at the money she used 
to put into the treasury every week.” 

“Very good. Come down -stairs to your room; I want to 
transact some business with you.” 

When they had gone dowrn to the stage and passed through 
the wings to Mr. Melton’s private room, both men sat down in 
front of a table on which were writing materials. 

“Take a sheet of paper, like a good fellow,” said the count, 
“ and write to my dictation.” 

Melton took the pen in his hand, and the count continued : 


DOUBTFUL. 


219 


“ My dear Miss Brunei , — In consideration of your past ser- 
vices, and of the great success attending [should that be attendant, 
Melton ?] upon your previous labors in this theatre, I beg to offer 
you entire liberty to break your present engagement , at whatever 
time you please . — Yours sincerely, Charles Melton 

“And what do you propose to do with that, count?” said 
Melton, with a smile. 

“I propose to give you this bit of paper for it,” said the 
count. 

He handed the manager an I. 0. U. for two hundred pounds, 
and then carefully folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

DOUBTFUL. 

Without taking off either bonnet or cloak, Annie Brunei, on 
reaching home that night, went at once to Mrs. Christmas’s room, 
and flung herself down on the edge of the bed where the poor 
old woman lay, ailing and languid. 

“ Oh, mother, mother,” cried the girl, “ I can never go to the 
theatre any more !” 

She buried her face in the bedclothes, and only stretched out 
her hand for sympathy. The old woman tried to put her arm 
round the girl’s neck, but relinquished the attempt with a sigh. 

“ What is to become of us, Miss Annie ?” 

“I don’t know — I don’t know,” she said, almost wildly, “and 
why should I care any longer ?” 

“ What new trouble is this that has fallen on us ?” said Mrs. 
Christmas, faintly. “ Why do you speak like that ?” 

“ Because I don’t know what to say, mother — because I would 
rather die than go to the theatre again — and he says I must. I 
cannot go — I cannot go — and there is no one to help me !” 

The old woman turned her eyes — and they looked large in the 
shrivelled and weakly face — on her companion. 

“Annie, you won’t tell me what is the matter. Why should 
you hate the stage? Hasn’t it been kind to you? Wasn’t it 
kind to your mother — for many a long year, when she and you 


220 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


depended on it for your lives? The stage is a kind home for 
many a poor creature whom the world has cast out ; and you, 
Miss Annie, who have been in a theatre all your life, what has 
taken you now ? The newspapers ?” 

The girl only shook her head. 

“Because the business isn’t good?” 

No answer. 

“ Has Mr. Melton been saying anything ?” 

“ I tell you, mother,” said the girl, passionately, “ that I will 
not go upon the stage, because I hate it ! And I hate the people 
— I hate them for staring at me, and making me ashamed of my- 
self. I hate them because they are rich, and happy, and full of 
their own concerns. Indeed, mother, I can’t tell you — I only 
know that I will never go on the stage again, let them do what 
they like. Oh, to feel their eyes on me, and to know that I am 
only there for their amusement, and to know that I cannot com- 
pel them to — to anything but sit and compassionately admire my 
dress, and my efforts to please them ! I can’t bear it, Lady Jane 
— I can’t bear it !” 

And here she broke out into a fit of hysterical sobbing. 

“ My poor dear ! when I should be strong and ready to com- 
fort you, here I am, weaker and more helpless than yourself. 
But don’t go back to the theatre, sweetheart, until your taste for 
it returns.” 

“ It will never return. I hate the thought of it.” 

“ But it may. And in the mean time haven’t we over forty 
pounds in the house of good savings ?” 

“ That is nothing to what I must undertake to give Mr. Melton 
if I break my engagement. But I don’t mind that much, Lady 
Jane — I don’t mind anything except going back there, and you 
must never ask me to go back. Say that you won’t ! We shall 
get along somehow.” 

“ My darling, how can you imagine I would seek to send you 
back?” 

Annie Brunei did not sleep much that night ; but by the morn- 
ing she had recovered all her wonted courage and self-composure. 
Indeed, it was with a new and singular sense of freedom and 
cheerfulness that she rose to find the world before her, her own 
path through it as yet uncertain and full of risks. But she was 
now mistress of herself : she went to bid Mrs. Christmas good- 


DOUBTFUL. 


221 


morning with a blithe air, and then, as every Englishwoman does 
under such circumstances, she sent for the Times. 

She had no definite impression about her capabilities for earning 
her living outside of the dramatic profession, but she expected to 
find all the requisite suggestions in the Times. Here was column 
after column of proffered employment ; surely one little bit might 
be allotted to her. So she sat down hopefully before the big 
sheet, and proceeded to put a well-defined cross opposite each ad- 
vertisement which she imagined offered her a fair chance. 

While she was thus engaged, Count Schonstein’s brougham 
was announced ; and a few minutes thereafter, the count, having 
sent up his card, was permitted to enter the room. 

Outwardly his appearance was elaborate, and he wore a single 
deep crimson rose in the lapel of his tightly-buttoned frock-coat. 
His eyes, however, were a little anxious, and it was soon apparent 
that he had for the present relinquished his grand manner. 

“ I am delighted to see you looking so well,” he said, “ and I 
hope Mrs. Christmas is also better for her holiday.” 

“Poor Lady Jane is very ill,” said Miss Brunei, “though she 
will scarcely admit it.” 

“ Have I disturbed your political studies ?” he asked, looking at 
the open newspaper. 

“I have been reading the advertisements of situations,” she 
said, frankly. 

“Not, I hope,” he remarked, “with any reference to what I 
heard from Mr. Melton last night about your retiring from the 
stage ?” 

“ Indeed, it is from no other cause,” she said, cheerfully. “ I 
have resolved not to play any more ; but we cannot live without 
my doing something.” 

“ In the mean time,” said the count, drawing a letter from his 
pocket, “I have much pleasure in handing you this note from 
Mr. Melton. You will find that it releases you from your present 
engagement, whenever you choose to avail yourself of the power.” 

The young girl’s face was lighted up with a sudden glow of 
happiness and gratitude. 

“ How can I ever thank him for this great kindness ?” she said 
— “ so unexpected, so generous ! Indeed, I must go and see him, 
and thank him personally ; it is the greatest kindness I have re- 
ceived for years.” 


222 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


The count was a little puzzled. 

“You understand, Miss Brunei, that — that paper, you see, was 
not quite Mr. Melton’s notion until — ” 

“ Until you asked him ? Then I am indebted to you for many 
kindnesses, but for this more than all. I feel as if you had given 
me a pair of wings. How shall I ever thank you sufficiently ?” 

“ By becoming my wife .” 

He had nearly uttered the words ; but he did not. He felt 
that his mission that morning was too serious to be risked with- 
out the most cautious introduction. Besides, she was in far too 
good spirits to have such a suggestion made to her. He felt in- 
stinctively that, in her present mood, she would certainly laugh 
at him — the most frightful catastrophe that can happen to a man 
under the circumstances. And Count Schonstein had sufficient 
acquaintance with actresses to know that, while they have the 
most astonishing capacity for emotion, if their sympathies be 
properly excited, there are no people who, in cold blood, can so 
accurately detect the ridiculous in a man’s exterior. An actress 
in love forgets everything but her love; an actress not in love 
has the cruellest eye for the oddities or defects of figure and 
costume. 

At the present moment, Count Schonstein felt sure that if he 
spoke of love, and marriage, and so forth, Miss Brunei would be 
looking at the rose in his button-hole, or scanning his stiff neck- 
tie and collar, or the unblushing corpulence of his waist. In his 
heart he wished he had no rose in his button-hole. 

It would be very easy to make fun of this poor count (and he 
was aware of the fact himself), as he stood there, irresolute, diffi- 
dent, anxious. But there was something almost pathetic as well 
as comic in his position. Consider how many vague aspirations 
were now concentrated upon this visit. Consider how he had 
thought about it as he had dressed himself many a morning, as 
he had gone to bed many a night ; how, with a strange sort of 
loyalty, he had striven to exalt his motives and persuade himself 
that he was quite disinterested; how the dull pursuit of his life, 
position, and influence had been tinged with a glow of sentiment 
and romance by meeting this young girl. 

“ She has no friends,” he said to himself, many a time, “ neither 
have I. Why should not we make common cause against the in- 
difference and hauteur of society ? I can make a good husband 


DOUBTFUL. 


223 


— I would yield in all things to her wishes. And away down in 
Kent together — we two — even if we should live only for each 
other — ” 

The count tried hard to keep this view of the matter before 
his eyes. When sometimes his errant imagination would picture 
his marriage with the poor actress ; then his claim, on behalf of 
his wife, for the estates and title of the Marquis of Knottingley’s 
daughter ; then the surprise, the chatter of the clubs, the position 
in society he would assume, the money he would have at his com- 
mand, the easy invitations to battues he could dispense like so 
many worthless coppers among the young lords and venerable 
baronets, and so forth, and so forth, he dwelt upon the prospect 
with an unholy and ashamed delight, and strove to banish it from 
his mind as a temptation of the devil. 

These conflicting motives, and the long train of anticipations 
connected with them, only served to render his present situation 
the more tragic. He knew that one great crisis of his life had 
come; and it is not only incomparable heroes, possessed of all 
human graces and virtues, who meet with such crises. 

“ When do you propose to leave the stage 2” he asked. 

“ I have left,” she answered. 

“ You won’t play to-night 2” 

“No.” 

“But Mr. Melton— 2” 

“ Since he has been so kind as to give me, at your instigation, 
this release, must get Miss Featherstone to play Rosalind. Nelly 
will play it very nicely, and my best wishes will go with her.” 

“ Then I must see him instantly,” said the count, “ and give 
him notice to get a handbill printed.” 

“ If you would be so kind.” 

But this was too bad. She intimated by her manner that she 
expected him to leave at once, merely for the sake of the wretched 
theatre. He took up the newspaper, by way of excuse, and for a 
minute or two glanced down its columns. 

“ Have you any fixed plans about what you mean to do 2” he 
asked. 

“ None whatever,” she replied. “ Indeed, I am in no hurry. 
You have no idea how I love this sense of freedom you have just 
given me, and I mean to enjoy it for a little time.” 

“ But after then 2” 


224 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


She shrugged her shoulders and smiled: he thought he had 
never seen her look so charming. 

“You don’t know what lies before you,” he said, gravely, “if 
you think of battling single-handed against the crowds of London. 
You don’t know the thousands who are far more eager in the 
fight for bread than you are ; because you haven’t experienced 
the necessity yet — ” 

“ I have fought for my bread ever since my poor mother died,” 
she said. 

“ With exceptional advantages, and these you now abandon. 
My dear Miss Brunei,” he added, earnestly, “ you don’t know 
what you’re doing. I shudder to think of the future that you 
seem to have chalked out for yourself. On the other hand, I see 
a probable future for you in which you would not have to depend 
upon any one for your support; you would be independent of 
those people whom you profess to dislike; you would be rich, 
happy, with plenty of amusement, nothing to trouble you, and 
you would also secure a pleasant home for Mrs. Christmas.” 

“Have you imagined all that out of one of these advertise- 
ments ?” she asked, with a smile. 

“ No, Miss Brunei,” said the count, whose earnestness gave him 
an eloquence which certainly did not often characterize his speech. 
“ Can’t you guess what I mean ? I am sure you know how I es- 
teem you — you must have seen it, and perhaps you guessed what 
feelings lay behind that — and — and — now you are alone, as it 
were, you have no friends — why not accept my home, and become 
my wife?” 

“Your wife!” she repeated, suddenly becoming quite grave, 
and looking down. 

“ Yes,” he said, delighted to find that she did not get up in a 
towering passion, as he had seen so many ladies do, under similar 
circumstances, on the stage. “ I hope you do not feel offended. 
I have spoken too abruptly, perhaps ; but, now it is out, let me 
beg of you to listen to me. Look at this, Miss Brunei, fairly ; I 
don’t think I have an unkind disposition ; I am sincerely attached 
to you ; you are alone, as I say, with scarcely a friend ; we have 
many tastes in common ; and as I should have nothing to do but 
invent amusements for you, I think we should lead an agreeable 
life. I am not a very young man, but, on the other hand, I 
haven’t my way to make in the world. You don’t like the stage. 


DOUBTFUL. 


225 


I am glad of it. It assures me that if you would only think well 
of my proposal, we should lead a very agreeable life. I’m. sure 
we should have a pleasant, agreeable life; for, after all — it is 
absurd to mention this just now, perhaps — but one has a good 
deal of latitude in thirty thousand pounds a year ; and you don’t 
have to trouble your mind ; and if the most devoted affection can 
make you happy, then happy you’ll be.” 

Annie Brunei sat quite silent, and not very much affected or 
put out. She had been in good spirits all the morning, had been 
nerving herself for an heroic and cheerful view of the future ; and 
now here was something to engage her imagination ! There is no 
woman in the world, whatever her training may have been, who, 
under such circumstances, and with such a picturesque offer held 
out to her, would refuse at least to regard and try to realize the 
prospect. 

“ You are very kind,” she said, “ to do me so much honor. 
But you are too kind. You wish to prevent my being subjected 
to the hardships of being poor and having to work for a living, 
and you think the easiest way to do that is to make me the mis- 
tress of all your money.” 

“ I declare, Miss Brunei, you wrong me,” said the count, warm- 
ly. “ Money has nothing to do with it. I mentioned these things 
as inducements — unwisely, perhaps. Indeed it has nothing to do 
with it. Won’t you believe me when I say that I could hope for 
no greater fortune and blessing in the world, if neither you nor I 
had a farthing of money, than to make you my wife ?” 

“ I am afraid you would be sadly disappointed,” she said, with 
a smile. 

“ Will you let me risk that ?” he said, eagerly, and trying to 
take her hand. 

She withdrew her hand, and rose. 

“ I can’t tell you yet,” she said ; “ I can scarcely believe that 
we are talking seriously. But you have been always very kind, 
and I’m very much obliged to you.” 

“Miss Brunei,” said the count, hurriedly — he did not like to 
hear a lady say she was much obliged by his offer of thirty thou- 
sand pounds a year — “ don’t make any abrupt decision, if you 
have not made up your mind. At any rate, you don’t refuse to 
consider the matter? I knew you would at least do me that jus- 
tice : in a week’s time, perhaps — ” 

10 * 


226 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


She gave him her hand as he lifted his hat and cane, and he 
gratefully bowed over it, and ventured to kiss it; and then he 
took his leave, with a radiant smile on his face as he went down- 
stairs. 

“ Club. And, d — n it, be quick !” he said to his astonished 
coachman. 

Arrived there, he ordered the waiter to take up to the smoking- 
room a bottle of the pale port which the count was in the habit 
of drinking there. Then he countermanded the order. 

“ I needn’t make a beast of myself because I feel happy,” he 
said to himself, wisely, as he went into the dining-room. “Al- 
fred, I’ll have a bit of cold chicken, and a bottle of the wine that 
you flatter yourself is Chateau Yquem.” 

Alfred, who was a tall and stately person, with red hair and no 
h? s, was not less astonished than the count’s coachman had been. 
However, he brought the various dishes, and then the wine. The 
count poured the beautiful amber fluid into a tumbler, and took a 
draught of it : 

“ Here’s to her health, whether the wine came from Bordeaux 
or Biberich !” 

But, as a rule, the Chateau Yquem of clubs is a cold drink, 
which never sparkled under the warm sun of France ; and so, as 
the count went up-stairs to the smoking-room, he returned to his 
old love, and told them to send him a pint - bottle of port. He 
had already put twenty-two shillings’ worth of wine into his ca- 
pacious interior ; and he had only to add a glass or two of port, 
and surround his face with the perfume of an old, hard, and dry 
cigar, in order to get into that happy mood when visions are born 
of the half-somnolent brain. 

“ I have done it — I have broken the ice, and there is still 

hope. Her face was pleased, her smile was friendly, her soft clear 
eyes — fancy having that smile and those eyes at your breakfast- 
table every morning, to sweeten the morning air for you, and 
make you snap your fingers at the outside world ! ’Gad, I could 
write poetry about her ! I’ll live poetry — which will be something 
better.” 

At this moment there looked into the room a handsome and 
dressy young gentleman who was the funny fellow of the club. 
He lived by his wits, and managed to make a good income, con- 
sidering the material on which he had to work. 


DOUBTFUL. 


227 


“ What a courageous man — port in the forenoon !” he said to 
the count. 

The other said nothing, hut inwardly devoted the new-comer to 
the deeps of Hades. 

“And smoking to our old port !” 

“ A cigar doesn’t make much difference to club-wines, young 
gentleman,” said the count, grandly. 

“ Heard a good thing just now. Fellow was abusing Scotch- 
men to a Scotch tradesman, and of course Bannockburn was men- 
tioned. ‘ Why,’ says the Englishman, ‘ plenty of my countrymen 
were buried at Bannockburn, and there you have rich harvests of 
grain. Plenty of your countrymen were buried at Culloden, and 
there you have only a barren waste. Scotchmen can’t even fatten 
the land.’ ” 

“Did he kill him ?” 

“ No ; the Englishman was a customer.” 

Once more the count was left to his happy imaginings. 

“ Then the marriage,” he thought to himself, “ then the mar- 
riage — the girls in white, Champagne, fun, horses, and flowers, and 
away for France ! No Trouville for me, no Etretat, no Biarritz. 
A quiet old Norman town, with an old inn, and an old priest ; 
and she and I walking about like the lord and lady of the place, 
with all the children turning and looking at her as if she were an 
Italian saint come down from one of the pictures in the church. 
This is what I offer her — instead of what? A seamstress’s gar- 
ret in Camden Town, or a music-mistress’s lodgings in Islington, 
surrounded by squalid and dingy people, glaring public - houses, 
smoke, foul air, wretchedness, and misery. I take her from the 
slums of Islington, and I lead her down into the sweet air of 
Kent, and I make a queen of her !” 

The count’s face beamed with pleasure, and port. The very 
nimbleness of his own imagination tickled him. 

“ Look at her ! In a white cool morning - dress, with her big 
heaps of black hair braided up, as she goes daintily down into 
the garden in the warm sunshine, and her little fingers are gath- 
ering a bouquet for her breast. The rawboned wives of your 
country gentry, trying to cut a dash on the money they get from 
selling their extra fruit and potatoes, turn and look at my soft lit- 
tle Italian princess, as she lies back in her barouche and regards 
them kindly enough, God bless her ! What a job I shall have to 


228 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


teach her her position — to let her know that, now she is a lady, 
the time for general good -humor is gone! Mrs. Anerley, yes; 
but none of your clergymen’s wives, nor your doctors’ wives, nor 
your cow-breeding squires’ wives for her ! Day after day, week 
after week, nothing but brightness, and pleasure, and change. 
All this I am going to give her in exchange for the squalor of 
Islington !” 

The count regarded himself as the best of men. At this mo- 
ment, however, there strolled into the smoking-room a certain 
Colonel Tyrwhitt, who was connected by blood or marriage with 
half a dozen peerages, had a cousin in the Cabinet, and wore on 
his finger a ring given him by the decent and devout old King of 
Saxony. This colonel — “a poor devil I could buy up twenty 
times over,” said the count, many a time — walked up to the fire- 
place, and, turning, proceeded to contemplate the count, his wine, 
and cigar, as if these objects had no sensible existence. He 
stroked his gray mustache once or twice, yawned very openly, 
and then walked lazily out of the room again without having ut- 
tered a word. 

“D — n him!” said the count, mentally; “the wretched pau- 
per, who lives by loo, and looks as grand as an emperor because 
he has some swell relations, who won’t give him a farthing. 
These are the people who will be struck dumb with amazement 
and envy by-and-by. My time is coming. 

“ ‘ Ah ! my dear fellah !’ says this colonel to me, some morn- 
ing, ‘I’ve heard the news. Congratulate you — all my heart. 
Lord Bockerminster tells me you’ve some wonderful shooting 
down in Berks.’ 

“ ‘ So I have,’ says I ; ‘ and I should be glad, colonel, to ask 
you down ; but you know my wife and I have to be rather select 
in our choice of visitors — ’ 

“ ‘ What the devil do you mean ?’ says he. 

“ ‘ Only that our list of invitations is closed for the present.’ 

“ Suppose he gets furious ? Let him ! I don’t know much 
about fencing or pistol-shooting, but I’d undertake to punch his 
head twenty times a week.” 

The count took another sip of port, and pacified himself. 

“ Then the presentations to her majesty. I shouldn’t wonder 
if the queen took us up, when she gets to learn Annie’s story. It 
would be just like the queen to make some sort of compensation ; 


DOUBTFUL. 


229 


and once she saw her it would be all right. The Court Circular 
— ‘Osborne, May 1st, Count Schonstein and Lady Annie Knot- 
tingley had the honor of dining with the queen and the royal 
family.’ Lord Bockerminster comes up to me, and says, 

“ ‘ Schonstein, old boy, when are you going to give me a turn 
at your pheasants ? I hear you have the best preserves in the 
South of England.’ 

“ ‘ Well, you see, my lord,’ I say, carelessly, ‘ I have the Duke 

of S and a party of gentlemen going down on the 1st, and 

the duke is so particular about the people he meets that I — you 
understand ?’ 

“And why only a duke? The Prince of Wales is as fond of 
pheasant-shooting as anybody else, I suppose. Why shouldn’t 
he come down with the princess and a party? And I’d make 
the papers talk of the splendid hospitality of the place, if I paid, 
damme, a thousand pounds for every dish. Then to see the 
princess — God bless her, for she’s the handsomest woman in Eng- 
land, bar one ! — walking down on the terrace with Annie, while 
the prince comes up to me and chaffs me about some blunder I 
made the day before. Then I say, 

“ ‘ Well, your royal highness, if your royal highness was over 
at Schonstein and shooting with my keepers there, perhaps you 
might put your foot in it too.’ 

“ ‘ Count Schonstein,’ says he, 1 you’re a good fellow and a 
trump, and you’ll come with your pretty wife and see us at Marl- 
borough House ?’ ” 

The count broke into a loud and triumphant laugh, and had 
nearly demolished the glass in front of him by an unlucky sweep 
of the arm. Indeed, farther than this interview with these cele- 
brated persons, the imagination of the count could not carry him. 
He could wish for nothing beyond these things, except the per- 
petuity of them. The Prince of Wales should live forever, if 
only to be his friend. 

And if this ultimate and royal view of the future was even 
more pleasing than the immediate and personal one, it never oc- 
curred to him that there could be any material change in passing 
from one to the other. Annie Brunei was to be grateful and 
loving towards him for having taken her from “ the squalor of 
Islington ” to give her a wealthy station ; she was to be equally 
grateful and loving when she found herself the means of securing 


230 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


to her husband that position and respect which he had deceived 
her to obtain. Such trifling points were lost in the full glory 
which now bathed the future that lay before his eyes. Annie 
Brunei had shown herself not unwilling to consent, which was 
equivalent to consenting ; and there only remained to be reaped 
all the gorgeous happiness which his imagination, assisted by a 
tolerable quantity of wine, could conceive. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 
mother Christmas’s story. 

Annie Brunel ran into Mrs. Christmas’s room the moment 
Count Schon stein had left, and, sitting down by the bedside, took 
the old woman’s lean hand in hers. 

“ Lady Jane, I have been looking over the advertisements in 
the Times, and do you know what I have found ?” 

“No.” 

“ One offering me a marvellous lot of money, and a fine house 
in the country, with nice fresh air and constant attendance for 
you. Horses, carriages, opera-boxes, months at the sea-side — ev- 
erything complete. There !” 

“Why don’t you take it, sweetheart?” said the old woman, with 
a faint smile. 

“ Because — I don’t say that I sha’n’t take it — there is a condi- 
tion attached, and such a condition ! Not to puzzle you, mother, 
any more, Count Schonstein wants me to be his wife. Now !” 

“Are you serious, Annie?” said Mrs. Christmas, her aged eyes 
full of astonishment. 

“I can’t say. I don’t think the count was. You know he is 
not a witty man, mother, and it might be a joke. But if it was 
a joke, he acted the part admirably — he pulled two leaves out of 
my photographic album, and nibbled a hole in the table-cover 
with his nail. He sat so, Lady Jane, and said, in a deep bass 
voice, ‘ Miss Brunei, I have thirty thousand pounds a year ; I am 
old; I am affectionate ; -and will you marry me?’ Anything 
more romantic you could not imagine ; and the sighs he heaved, 
and the anxiety of his face, would have been admirable, had he 


mother Christmas’s story. 


231 


been dressed as Orlando, and playing to my Rosalind. ‘ For these 
two hours , Rosalind, I will leave thee.'’ c Alas, dear love, I cannot 
lack thee two hours /’ ” 

“ Sweetheart, have you grown mad ? What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean what I say. Must I describe the whole scene to 
you ? — my lover’s fearful diffidence, my gentle silence, his grow- 
ing confidence, my wonder and bewilderment ; finally, his half- 
concealed joy, and my hasty rush to you, Lady Jane, to tell you 
the news ?” 

“ And a pretty return you are making for any man’s confidence 
and affection, to go on in that way ! What did you say to him ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“And what do you mean to say?” 

“Nothing. What can I say, Lady Jane? I am sure he must 
have been joking ; and, if not, he ought to have been. At the 
same time, I don’t laugh at the count himself, mother, but at his 
position a few minutes ago.” 

“ And as you laugh at that, you laugh at the notion of becom- 
ing his wife.” 

The smile died away from the girl’s face, and for some time 
she sat and gazed wistfully before her. Then she said, 

“ You ought to be able to say what I ought to do, mother. I 
did not say no, I did not say yes ; I was too afraid to say either. 
And now, if we are to talk seriously about it, I am quite as much 
afraid. Tell me what to do, Lady Jane.” 

“Is it so entirely a matter of indifference that you can accept 
my advice?” 

“ It is quite a matter of indifference,” said the girl, calmly. 

“ Do you love him, Annie ?” said the old woman. 

For one brief second the girl’s thoughts flashed to the man 
whom she did love; but they returned with only a vague im- 
pression of pain and doubt. She had not had time to sit down 
and reason out her course of duty. She could only judge, as yet, 
by the feelings awakened by the count’s proposal, and the pict- 
ures which it exhibited to her mind. 

“ Do I love him, mother ?” she said, in a low voice. “ I like 
him very well, and I am sure he is very fond of me ; I am quite 
sure of that.” 

“ And what do you say yourself about it ?” 

“ What can I say ? If I marry him,” she said, coldly, “ it will 


232 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


give him pleasure, and I know he will be kind to me and to you. 
It is his wish — not mine. We should not be asking or receiving 
a favor, mother. I suppose he loves me as well as he loves any 
one ; and I suppose i can make as good a wife as any one else.” 

There was in this speech the faint indication of a bitterness 
having its root in a far deeper bitterness, which had suggested 
the whole tone of this interview. When Mrs. Christmas thought 
the girl was laughing cruelly at a man who had paid her the 
highest compliment in his power, when she saw this girl exhibit- 
ing an exaggerated heartlessness in talking of the proposed mar- 
riage as a marriage of convenience, she did not know that this 
indifference and heartlessness were but the expression of a deep 
and hopeless and despairing love. 

“ Poverty is not a nice thing, mother ; and until I should have 
established myself as a teacher of music, we should have to be 
almost beggars. The count offers us a pleasant life ; and I dare 
say I can make his dull house a little more cheerful to him. It 
is a fair bargain. He did not ask me if I loved him : probably 
he did not see the necessity any more than I do. What he pro- 
poses will be a comfortable arrangement for all of us.” 

Mrs. Christmas looked at the calm, beautiful, sad face, and said 
nothing. 

“ I think the count is an honorable, well-meaning man,” con- 
tinued the girl, in the same cold tone. “ If he sometimes makes 
himself ridiculous, so do most of us ; and doubtless he is open to 
improvement. I think he is remarkably good-natured and gener- 
ous, and I am sure he will be kind to us.” 

Consider Mrs. Christmas’s position. An old woman, almost 
bedridden, ailing, and requiring careful and delicate attention — 
one who has seen much of the folly of love and much of the 
power of money — is asked for her advice by a young girl who is 
either, on the one hand, to marry a wealthy, good-natured man, 
willing to give both a comfortable home, or, on the other hand, 
to go out alone into the world of London, unprotected and friend- 
less, to earn bread for two people. Even admitting that no gram 
of selfishness should color or shape her advice, what was she likely 
to say ? 

Ninety-nine women out of a hundred, under such circumstances, 
would say : “ My dear, be sensible, and accept the offer of a wor- 
thy and honorable gentleman, instead of exposing yourself to the 


mother Christmas’s story. 


233 


wretchedness and humiliation of poverty. Romance won’t keep 
you from starving ; and, besides, in your case there is no roman- 
tic affection to compel you to choose between, love and money. 
People who have come to my time of life know the advantages 
of securing a happy home and kind friends.” 

This, too, is probably what Mrs. Christmas would have said, if 
she had not been born and bred an actress. This is what she 
did say : 

“ My dear ” (with a kindly smile on the wan face), “ suppose 
you and I are going forward to the foot-lights, and I take your 
hand in mine, and look into your face, and say, 1 Listen to the 
sad story of your mother’s life ?” 

“ Well, Lady Jane?” 

“You are supposed to be interested in it, and take its moral 
deeply to heart. Well, I’m going to tell you a story, sweetheart, 
although you may not see any moral in it — it’s a story your 
mother knew.” 

“ If she were here now !” the girl murmured, inadvertently. 

“ When I was three years younger than you, I was first cham- 
ber-maid in the Theatre Royal, Bristol. Half the pit were my 
sweethearts; and I got heaps of letters, of the kind that you 
know, Annie — some of them impudent, some of them very loving 
and respectful. Sometimes it was, 1 My dear miss, will you take 
a glass of wine with me at such and such a place, on such and 
such a night?’ and sometimes it was, ‘I dare not seek an intro- 
duction, lest I read my fate in your refusal. I can only look at 
you from afar off, and be miserable.’ Poor boys ! they were all 
very kind to me, and used to take such heaps of tickets for my 
benefits ! for in Bristol, you know, the first chamber-maid had a 
benefit, like her betters.” 

“ There were none better than you in the theatre, I’m sure, 
mother,” said Annie. 

“ Don’t interrupt the story, my dear ; for we are at the foot- 
lights, and the gallery is supposed to be anxious to hear it. I 
declare I have always loved the top gallery. There you find crit- 
ics who are attentive, watchful, who are ready to applaud when 
they’re pleased, and to hiss when they’re not. Well, there was 
one poor lad, out of all my admirers, got to be acquainted with 
our little household, and he and I became — friends. He was a 
wood-engraver, or something like that, only a little older than 


234 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


myself — long fair hair, a boyish face, gentleness like a girl about 
him ; and nothing would do but that I should engage to be his 
wife, and he was to be a great artist and do wonders for my sake.” 

The hard look on the young girl’s face had died away now, 
and there was a dreaminess in her eyes. 

“ I did promise ; and for about two years we were a couple of 
the maddest young fools in the world — I begging him to make 
haste, and get money, and marry me ; he full of audacious schemes, 
and as cheerful as a lark in the certainty of marrying me. He 
tried painting pictures; then he began scene -painting, and suc- 
ceeded so well that he at last got an engagement in a London 
theatre, and nearly broke his heart when he went away there to 
make money for both of us.” 

The old woman heaved a gentle sigh. 

“Whenever I’m very sad, all the wretchedness of that first 
parting of my life comes over me, and I see the wet streets of 
Bristol, and the shining lamps, and his piteous face, though he 
tried to be very brave over it and cheer me up. I felt like a 
stone, and didn’t know what was going on ; I only wished that 
I could get away into a corner and cry myself dead. Very well, 
he went, and I remained in Bristol. I needn’t tell you how it 
came about — how I was a little tired of waiting, and we had a 
quarrel, and, in short, I married a gentleman who had been very 
kind and attentive to me. He was over thirty, and had plenty 
of money, for he was a merchant in Bristol, and his father was an 
old man who had made a fine big fortune in Jamaica. He was 
very kind to me, in his way, and for a year or two we lived very 
well together; but I knew that he thought twenty times of his 
business for once he thought of me. And what was I thinking 
of? Ah, Miss Annie, don’t consider me very wicked if I tell 
you that from the hour in which I was married there never passed 
a single day in which I did not think of the other one.” 

“ Poor mother !” said the girl. 

“ Every day ; and I used to go down on my knees and pray 
for him, that so I might be sure my interest in him was harm- 
less. We came to London, too ; and every time I drove along 
the streets — I sat in my own carriage, then, my dear — I used to 
wonder if I should see him. I went to the theatre in which he 
was scene-painter, thinking I might catch a glimpse of him from 
one of the boxes, passing through the wings; but I never did. 


mother Christmas’s story. 


235 


I knew his house, however, and sometimes I passed it; but I 
never had the courage to look at the windows, for fear he should 
be there. It was very wicked, very wicked, Annie.” 

“ Was your husband kind to you ?” 

“In a distant sort of way that tormented me. He seemed al- 
ways to consider me an actress, and a baby ; and he invariably 
went out into society alone, lest I should compromise him, I 
suppose. I think I grew mad altogether ; for one day I left his 
house resolved never to go back again.” 

“And you said he was kind to you !” repeated the girl, with a 
slight accent of reproach. 

“ I suppose I was mad, Annie ; at any rate, I felt myself driven 
to it, and couldn’t help myself. I went straight to the street in 
which he lived, and walked up and down, expecting to meet him. 
He did not come. I took lodgings in a coffee-house. Next day 
I went back to that street; even then I did not see him. On 
the third afternoon I saw him come down the steps from his 
house, and I all at once felt sick and cold. How different he 
looked now ! — firm, and resolute, and manly, but still with the old 
gentleness about the eyes. He turned very pale when he saw 
me, and was about to pass on. Then he saw that my eyes fol- 
lowed him, and perhaps they told him something, for he turned 
and came up to me, and held out his hand, without saying a 
word.” 

There were tears in the old woman’s eyes now. 

“‘You forgive me?’ I said, and he said ‘Yes’ so eagerly that 
I looked up again. I took his arm, and we walked on in the 
old fashion, and I forgot everything but the old, old days, and I 
wished I could have died just then. It seemed as if all the hard 
intervening years had been swept out, and we were still down in 
Bristol, and still looking forward to a long life together. I think 
we were both out of our senses for several minutes; and I shall 
never forget the light there was on his face and in his eyes. 
Then he began to question me, and all at once he turned to me, 
with a scared look, and said, 

“ ‘ What have you done ?’ 

“It was past undoing then. I knew he loved me at that 
moment as much as ever, by the terrible state he got into. He 
implored me to go back to my husband. I told him it was too 
late. I had already been away two days from home. 


236 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“‘If I could only have seen you on the day you left your 
husband’s house,’ he said, ‘ this would never have happened. I 
should have made you go back.’ 

“Then I began to feel a kind of fear, and I said, 

“ ‘ What am I to do, Charlie ? What are you going to do 
with me ?’ 

“‘I?’ he said. ‘Do you ask me what I must do? Would 
you have me leave my wife and children ?’ 

“ I did not know he was married, you -see, Miss Annie. Oh, 
the shame that came over me when I heard these words ! The 
moment before I scarcely knew that I walked at all, so deliriously 
full of joy I was ; then I wished the ground would open beneath 
my feet. He offered to go to my husband and intercede for me ; 
but I would have drowned myself rather than go back. I was 
the wretchedest woman in the whole world. And I could see 
that he loved me as much as evier, though he never would say so. 
That is all of my story that need concern you ; but shall I tell 
you the rest, Miss Annie ?” 

“Yes, Lady Jane.” 

“ Your mother was then the most popular actress in London ; 
she could do anything she liked in the theatre ; and it was for 
that theatre that he chiefly worked then, though he became a 
great artist afterward. Well, he took me back to the coffee- 
house, and left me there ; and then he went and persuaded your 
mother to take an interest in me, and through her means I got 
an engagement in the same theatre. From the moment I was 
settled there, he treated me almost like a stranger. He took off 
his hat to me in the street, and passed on without speaking. If 
I met him in the theatre, he would say ‘ Good-evening,’ as he 
would to the other ladies. He used to send me little presents, 
and he never forgot my birthday; but they were always sent 
anonymously, and if I saw him the next day he seemed more 
distant than ever, as if to keep me away. Oh ! many and many a 
time have I been on the point of throwing myself at his feet, and 
clasping his knees, and thanking him with my whole heart for his 
goodness to me. I used to hate his wife, whom I had never seen, 
until one Sunday morning I saw her and him going to church — 
one little girl at his hand, another at hers. — and the sweet face 
she had turned my heart towards her. Would you believe it? he 
bowed to me as kindly and respectfully as ever, and I think he 


mother Christmas’s story. 


237 


would have stopped and spoken to me then , only I hurried away 
out of his sight.” 

“And you never went back?” said the girl, softly. 

“ How could I go back, clothed with shame, and subject my- 
self to his suspicion ? Besides, he was the last man to have 
taken me back. Once he felt sure I had left his house wilfully, 
I am certain he did not trouble himself much about me — as why 
should he ? — why should he ?” 

“ It is a very sad story, Lady Jane.” 

“ And it has a moral.” 

“But not for me. You are afraid I should marry Count 
Schonstein out of pique, and so be wretched? But there is no 
other person whom I could marry.” 

“Come closer to me, sweetheart. There, bend your head 
down, and whisper. Is there no other person whom you love P 

The girl’s head was so close down to the pillow that the blush 
on her face was unseen as she said, in a scarcely audible voice, 

“ There is, mother .” 

“ I thought so, my poor girl. And he loves you, does he not ?” 

“ He does, Lady Jane. That is the misery of it.” 

“You think he is not rich enough? He has his way to 
make ? Or perhaps his friends — ?” 

“You are speaking of — ?” 

“Mr. Anerley.” 

“ But all your conjectures are wrong, mother — all quite wrong. 
Indeed, I cannot explain it to you. I only know, mother, that I 
am very unhappy.” 

“And you mean to marry Count Schonstein to revenge your- 
self?” 

“I did not say I would marry Count Schonstein,” said the 
girl, fretfully, “ and I have nothing to revenge. I am very sorry, 
Lady Jane, to think of the sad troubles you have had, and you 
are very good to warn me ; but I have not quarrelled with any- 
body, and I am not asked to wait in order to marry anybody, 
and—” 

Here she raised herself up, and the old, bitter, hard look came 
to the sad and gentle face. 

“ — And if I should marry Count Schonstein, I shall disappoint 
no one, and break no promise. Before I marry Count Schon- 
stein, he shall know what he may expect from me. I can give 


238 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


him my esteem, and confidence, and a certain amount of liking ; 
and many people have lived comfortably on less. And you, 
mother, should be the last to say anything against an arrange- 
ment which would give you comfort, and relieve your mind from 
anxiety.” 

“And you have lived so long with me,” said old Mother 
Christmas, reproachfully, “ and you don’t know yet that sooner 
than let my comfort bring you to harm, Annie, or tempt you to 
a false step, I would twenty times rather beg my bread ?” 

“ Forgive me, mother !” said the girl, impetuously, “ but I don’t 
know what I’ve been saying. Everything seems wrong and 
cruel ; and if I forget that you have been a mother to me, it is — 
it is because — I am — so miserable that — ” 

And here the two women had a hearty cry together, which 
smoothed down their troubles for the present, and drew them 
closer to each other. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

LEFT ALONE. 

“No,” said Dove, blocking up the door- way with her slight 
little figure, as the wagonette was driven round, “ neither of you 
stirs a step until you tell me where you are going.” 

Will’s last injunction to his father had been, “Don’t let the 
women know.” So the women did not know ; and on this Mon- 
day morning both men were stealthily slipping away up to Lon- 
don when the heroic little Dove caught them in the act. 

“We are going to London, my dear,” said Mr. Anerley. 

“ On business,” said Will. 

“Yes, on business !” said Dove, pouting. “I know what it is. 
You go into somebody’s office in the forenoon and talk a little ; 
and then both of you go away and play billiards ; then you dine 
at Will’s club or at a hotel, and then you go to the theatre.” 

“Will has been telling tales,” said Mr. Anerley. 

“And to-day of all days,” continued the implacable Dove, 
“ when you know very well, papa, and you needn’t try to deny it, 
that you promised to help me in getting down the last of the 


LEFT ALONE. 


239 


walnuts. No ; neither of you shall stir this day ; so you may as 
well send back the wagonette.” 

“ My dear, the most important business — ” said Mr. Anerley, 
gravely. 

“ I don’t care,” said Dove. “ If you two people are going up 
to amuse yourselves in London, you must take me. Else stay at 
home.” 

“ But how can you go ?” said Will. “ We have now barely 
time to catch the train.” 

“ Go by the ten-o’clock train,” said Dove, resolutely, “ and I 
shall be dressed by then. Or the walnuts, if you like.” 

“ Of the two evils, I prefer to take you,” said Will. “ So run 
and get your things ready ; and we shall take you to the theatre 
to-night.” 

“ My boy,” said his father, when she was gone, “ look at the 
additional expense.” 

“ In for a penny, in for a pound, father,” said Will. “ I shall 
allow my finances to suffer for the stall-tickets ; and you, having 
just been ruined, ought to be in a position to give us a very nice 
dinner. People won’t believe you have lost your money unless 
you double your expenditure and scatter money about as freely 
as dust.” 

“ You both look as if I had thrust myself on you !” said Dove, 
reproachfully, as they all got into the wagonette and drove off. 
“ But I forgive you, as you’re going to take me to the theatre. 
Shall I tell you which, Will ? Take me to see Miss Brunei, won’t 
you ?” 

She looked into his face for a moment ; but there was evident- 
ly no covert intention in her words. 

From Charing Cross Station they drove to the Langham Hotel. 
Dove said she was not afraid to spend an hour or so (under the 
shelter of a thick veil) in looking at the Regent Street and Ox- 
ford Street shops, while the gentlemen were gone into the City. 
At the expiry of that time she was to return to the hotel and 
wait for them. They then took a hansom and drove to Mr. An- 
erley’s solicitor. 

“And there,” said Mr. Anerley, on the way, “as if we were 
not sufficiently penniless, Hubbard’s brougham and a pair of his 
horses are coming over to-morrow.” 

“ Did you buy them ?” 


242 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


well, no. I should like to be head-keeper to a duke ; or, if they 
start any more of these fancy stage-coaches between London and 
the sea-side, I can drive pretty well.” 

“ You are joking,” said the other, dubiously. 

“A man with empty pockets never jokes, unless he hopes to 
fill them. At present — well, good-day to you ; you will let me 
know if you hear of anything to my advantage.” 

No sooner were they outside, than Will earnestly remonstrated 
with his father. 

“ You should not suddenly lose your pride, sir.” 

“ I never had any, my boy. If I had, it is time I should lose it.” 

“ And why need you talk of taking a situation ? If you can 
only tide over a little time, Miall & Welling will come all right.” 

“ My lad, the bladders that help you to float in that little time 
are rather expensive.” 

“ I have a few pounds — ” 

“And you will lend me them? Good. What we must do 
now is this: Get your landlord to give us a couple of bedrooms 
in the house, and we can all use your sitting-room. Then we 
shall be together ; and the first opportunity I have offered me of 
earning money, in whatever employment, I will accept it.” 

“ If I were not disabled, sir, by this confounded arm, you would 
not need to do anything of the kind.” 

“ Tut ! Every man for himself, and all of us for poor Dove, 
who at present will be moping up in that great room, terrified by 
the attentions of the waiters.” 

How they passed the day does not matter to us. In the even- 
ing they went to the theatre, and chose, at Will’s instigation, the 
dress-circle instead of the stalls. He hoped that he might escape 
being seen. 

He had scarcely cast his eye over the bill handed to him by 
the box - keeper, when he discovered that Annie Brunei’s name 
was not there at all. 

“ Dove,” he said, “ here’s a disappointment for you. Miss 
Featherstone plays Rosalind to-night, not Miss Brunei.” 

“ Doesn’t she appear at all to-night ?” said Dove, with a crest- 
fallen face. 

“ Apparently not. Will you go to some other theatre ?” 

“ No,” said Dove, decidedly. “ I want to see Rosalind, who- 
ever is Rosalind. Don’t you, papa ?” 


LEFT ALONE. 


243 


u My dear, I want to see anything that you want to see ; and 
I’m sure to be pleased if you laugh.” 

“ It isn’t a laughing part, and you know that quite well, you 
tedious old thing !” said Dove. 

Will went and saw Mr. Melton, from whom he learned little 
beyond the fact that Annie Brunei did not intend to act any 
more in his theatre. 

“ She is not unwell ?” 

“ I believe not.” 

“ Has she given up the stage altogether ?” 

“I fancy so. You’d better ask Count Schonstein: he seems 
to know all about it,” said Mr. Melton, with a peculiar smile. 

“ Why should he know all about it ?” asked Will, rather angri- 
ly ; but Melton only shrugged his shoulders. 

He returned to his place by Dove’s side; but the peculiar 
meaning of that smile — or rather the possible meaning of it — 
vexed and irritated him so that he could not remain there. He 
professed himself tired of having seen the piece so often ; and 
said he would go out for a walk, to cure himself of a headache 
he had, and return before the play was over. 

So he went out into the cool night-air, and wandered careless- 
ly on along the dark streets, bearing vaguely westward. He was 
thinking of many things, and scarcely knew that he rambled 
along Piccadilly, and still westward, until he found himself in the 
neighborhood of Kensington. 

Then he stopped ; and when he recognized the place in which 
he stood, he laughed slightly and bitterly. 

“ Down here, of course ! I had persuaded myself I had no 
wish to go to the theatre beyond that of taking Dove there, and 
that I was not disappointed when I found she did not play. 
Well, my feet are honester than my head.” 

He took out his watch. He had walked down so quickly that 
there were nearly two hours before he had to return to the thea- 
tre. Then he said to himself that, as he had nothing to do, he 
might as well walk down and take a look at the house which he 
knew so well. Perhaps it was the last time he might look on it, 
and know that she was inside. 

So he walked in that direction, taking little heed of the objects 
around him. People passed and repassed along the pavement; 
they were to him vague and meaningless shadows, occasionally 


244 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


lighted up by the glare of a shop- window or a lamp. Here and 
there he noticed some tall building or other object, which recalled 
old scenes and old times ; and, indeed, he walked on in a kind of 
dream, in which the past was as clearly around him as the present. 

At the corner of the street leading down to the smaller street, 
or square, in which Annie Brunei lived, there was a chemist’s 
shop, with large windows looking both ways. Also at the corner 
of the pavement was a lamp, which shed its clear orange light 
suddenly on the faces of the men and women who passed. 

He paused there for a moment, uncertain whether to turn or 
venture on, when a figure came out of the shop which — without 
his recognizing either the dress or the face — startled him, and 
made him involuntarily withdraw a step. It was the form, per- 
haps, or the motion, that told him who it was ; at all events, he 
knew that she herself was there, within a few yards of him. He 
did not know what to do. There was a vague desire in his heart 
to throw to the wind all considerations — his promise, his duty to 
one very dear to him ; but he only looked apprehensively at her. 
It was all over in a second, in half a second. She caught sight of 
him, shrunk back a little, uncertain, trembling, and then appeared 
as if she were about to pass on. But the great yearning in both 
their hearts suddenly became master of the situation ; for, at the 
same moment, apparently moved by the same impulse, they ad- 
vanced to each other, he caught her hands in his, and there was 
between them only one intense look of supreme and unutterable 

j°y- 

Such a look it is given to most men to receive once or twice — 
seldom oftener — in their lives. It is never to be forgotten. 
When a strong revulsion of feeling, from despondency and de- 
spair to the keen delight of meeting again, draws away from a 
girl’s eyes that coy veil of maiden bashfulness that generally half 
shrouds their light, when the spirit shines full and frank there, 
no disguise being longer possible, and it seems as if the beautiful 
eyes had speech in them — but how is it possible to describe such 
a moment in cold and brittle words? The remembrance of one 
such meeting colors a man’s life. You know that when you have 
lain and dreamed of enjoying companionship with one hopelessly 
separated from you — of seeing glad eyes you can never see again, 
and hearing sweet talk that you can never again hear — you rise 
with a confused sense of happiness, as if the morning air were 


LEFT ALONE. 


245 


full of tender thrills ; you still hear the voice, and you seem to 
be walking by the side of the sea, and there is sunshine and the 
sound of waves abroad. That dizzy remembrance, in itself a per- 
plexing, despairing joy, is something like the thought of such a 
moment and such a look as that I speak of, when one glances 
backward, after long years, and wonders how near heaven earth 
has been. 

When she went towards him, and looked up into his face, and 
when they walked away together, there was no thought of speech 
between them. Silence being so full of an indescribable joy, why 
should they break it? It was enough that they were near each 
other — that, for the present, there was no wide and mournful 
space between them, full of dim longings and bitter regrets. To- 
morrow was afar off, and did not concern them. 

“ Did you come to see me ?” she said, at last, very timidly. 

“ No.” 

Another interval of supreme silence, and then he said, 

“Have you got quite reconciled yet? I was afraid of seeing 
you — of meeting you; but now it seems as if it were a very 
harmless pleasure. Do you remember the last terrible night ?” 

“ There is no use talking of that,” she said ; “ and yet we 
ought not to meet each other — except — you know — ” 

“As friends, of course,” he said, with a smile. “Well, Annie, 
we sha’n’t be enemies ; but I do think, myself, it were rather 
more prudent, you understand, that we should not see each other 
— for a long time, at least. Now, tell me, why are you not at the 
theatre ?” 

“ I have given up the theatre.” 

“You do not mean to act any more?” 

“ No.” 

There suddenly recurred to him Mr. Melton’s significant smile, 
and dead silence fell upon him. If there could be anything in 
the notion that the count — 

Clearly, it was no business of his whether she married the 
count or no. Nay, if it were possible that her marriage with the 
count should blot out certain memories, he ought to have been 
rejoiced at it. And yet a great dread fell upon him when he 
thought of this thing ; and he felt as though the trusting little 
hand which was laid upon his arm had no business there, and 
was an alien touch. 


246 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“But,” he said, in rather an embarrassed way, “ if you have 
given up the theatre, it must have been for some reason.” 

“ For the reason that I could not bear it a moment longer.” 

“ And now — ” 

“ Now I am free.” 

“Yes, of course, free; but still — what do you propose to do?” 

“ I don’t know yet. I have been looking at some advertise- 
ments — ” 

“ Have you actually no plan whatever before you ?” he said, 
with surprise — and vet the surprise was not painful. 

“None” 

“ Why,” he said, “ we have all of us got into a nice condition, 
just as in a play. I shouldn’t wonder if the next act found the 
whole of us in a garret, in the dead of winter, of course.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ My father has lost all his money, and doesn’t know where to 
turn to keep his household alive. I — ” 

Here he stopped. 

“Ah,” she said, “ and you find yourself unable to help them 
because of your arm.” 

“ That will soon be better,” he said, cheerfully, “ and we will 
try not to starve. But you — what are you going to do? You 
do not know people in London ; and you do not know the terri- 
ble struggle that lies in wait for any unaided girl trying to make 
a living.” 

“ So the count says.” 

“ Oh ! you have told the count ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What did he suggest ?” 

“ He thinks I ought to marry him,” she said, frankly. 

“You marry him?” 

“ Yes. That was the only way, I dare say, in which he thought 
he could be of service to me. He really is so very kind, and 
thoughtful, and unselfish.” 

“ And you answered — ?” 

He uttered these words with an air of forced carelessness. He 
wished her to understand that he would be rather glad if she 
thought well of the proposal. For a moment she looked at him 
questioningly, as if to ask whether there was honest advice in that 
tone, and then she said, slowly, 


LEFT ALONE. 


247 


“ I said neither yes nor no. At the moment I did not know 
what to think. I — I knew that he would be kind to me, and that 
— he knew — that I liked him pretty well — as an acquaintance — ” 

“And you have not decided whether you ought to make the 
count happy or no ?” 

The false cheerfulness of his voice did not deceive her. 

“ Yes, I have decided,” she said, in a low voice. 

“ And you will — ?” 

“ Why not be frank with me ?” she said, passionately, and turn- 
ing to hi n with imploring eyes. “ Why speak like that ? Would 
you not despise me if I married that man ? Would I not despise 
myself? You see I talk to you frankly, for you are my friend: 
I could not marry him — I dare not think of my being his wife. 
I shall never be his wife — I shall never be any man’s wife.” 

“ Annie, he reasonable !” 

“ Perhaps it is not to you I should say that, and yet I know it. 
I am ashamed of myself when I think that I let him go away 
with the thought that I might accept his offer. But then I had 
not decided — I did not see it properly, not until I looked in your 
face to-night.” 

“It seems that I must always come between you and happi- 
ness.” 

“Do you call that happiness? But I must go hack now. 
Poor Lady Jane is rather worse to-day, and I was at the chemist’s, 
with a prescription from the doctor, when I met you. I hope 
we have not done wrong in speaking to each other.” 

So they went back, and he bade her farewell tenderly, and yet 
not so sadly as at their former parting. 

It seemed to him, as he passed away from the door, that he 
heard a faint, sharp cry from inside the house. He took no no- 
tice of it, however. He was already some distance off when he 
heard swift footsteps behind him, and then the maid-servant of 
the house, breathless and wild-eyed, caught him by the arm. 

“ Oh, sir, please come back ! Mrs. Christmas is dead, sir ; and 
the young missis is in such a dreadful state !” 

He at once hurried back, and found that the terrible intelligence 
was too true. Annie Brunei seemed almost to have lost her 
senses, so bitterly did she reproach herself for having neglected 
the bedside of her old friend. 

“ She was well enough, ma’am, when you went out,” the servant 


248 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


maintained, consoling her mistress, “ and there was nothing you 
could have done. I was in the room, and she asked for those 
letters as always lies in that drawer, ma’am ; and when I took 
them over to her, she tried to put up her hand, and then she sunk 
back, and in a minute it was all over. What could you have done, 
ma’am ? She couldn’t ha’ spoken a word to you.” 

But the girl was inconsolable, and it was past midnight when 
Will left her, having wholly failed in his efforts to soothe the 
bitterness of her grief and desolation. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE COUNT HESITATES. 

When Will returned to the hotel, he found his father waiting 
up for him, alone. He was too much overcome by the terrible 
scene he had just witnessed to make any but the barest apology 
for his discourtesy, and even that his father interrupted as un- 
necessary. 

“I left the theatre early,” he said, gloomily. “Dove was 
feverish and unwell. I think she must have caught cold when 
coming up with us in the morning. When I got her here, her 
cheeks were flushed and hot, and I saw that she was restless and 
languid by turns — in short, very feverish.” 

“ Did you send for a doctor ?” 

“ Oh no ; there was nothing one could speak to him about. 
To-morrow morning, if these symptoms are not gone, it might be 
advisable to consult some one.” 

They sat up very late that night discussing their future plans. 
There were but two alternatives before them. It was considered 
possible that with a few thousand pounds Mr. Anerley could meet 
present liabilities, and wait over for the time at which it was 
hoped the affairs of the bank would, through the realization of 
certain securities, be in a fair way of recovery. If, on the other 
hand, this present money was not forth-coming, the only course 
for Mr. Anerley was to remove from St. Mary-Kirby to London, 
and try to find some means of subsistence in the great city. 

“There is only Hubbard, of all my old acquaintances, in. a 


THE COUNT HESITATES. 


249 


position to help me,” said Mr. Anerley ; u and he is the last whom 
I should like to ask for any such favor.” 

“ I think you are inclined to misjudge the count, sir,” said 
Will ; “ and in this case you ought at least to see what he has to 
say before impeaching his good feeling. After all, you will find 
a good many men with as much money as the count, and as little 
to spend it on, quite as unwilling to oblige an old friend as you 
half expect him to be.” 

After a good deal of argument, it was arranged that Mr. 
Anerley should see the count on the following morning. Will 
forced him to this decision by a long description of what would 
fall upon the St. Mary -Kirby household in the event of his 
refusal. 

“ What is your pride compared with their wretchedness ?” he 
said. 

“ My boy,” he replied, “ I have no pride, except when I have a 
good gun in my hand and a good dog working bravely in front 
of me. Further, do you know so little of your own family as to 
think that poverty, the nightmare of novelists, would be so ap- 
palling to them ?” 

“ Not to them, perhaps ; but to you, looking at them.” 

And that was true of the Chestnut Bank household. Mis- 
fortune was as bitter to them as to any other family ; only it 
was for one another that they grieved. They had been educated 
into a great unselfishness through the constant kindly and half- 
mocking counsel of the head of the house ; but that unselfishness 
only imbittered misfortune. They did not brood over their in- 
dividual mishaps, but they exaggerated the possible effects of 
misfortune on each other, and shared this imaginary misery. Mr. 
Anerley was not much put out by the knowledge that henceforth 
he would scarcely have the wherewithal to keep himself decently 
clothed; but it was only when he thought of Dove being de- 
prived of her port-wine, and of Mrs. Anerley being cabined up in 
London lodgings (though these two were as careless of these 
matters as he about his matters), that he vowed he would go and 
see Count Schonstein, and beg him for this present assistance. 

“ As for Dove, poor girl !” he said to Will, “ you know what 
riches she prizes. You know what she craves for. A look from 
one she loves is riches to her; you can make her as wealthy as 
an empress by being kind to her.” 

11 * 


250 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ I’m sure no one ever could be unkind to Aer,” said Will. 

But the visit to Count Schonstein was postponed next morn- 
ing ; for Dove was worse than on the previous night, and was 
fain to remain in bed. Of course, a physician was called in. He 
had a long talk with Mr. Anerley, afterward ; and perhaps it was 
his manner, more than anything he actually said, that disquieted 
Dove’s guardian. What he actually did say was that the young 
girl was evidently very delicate ; that on her tender constitution 
this slight febrile attack might lead to graver consequences ; and 
that she must at once have careful, womanly nursing and country 
air. Per se , her ailment was not of a serious character. 

Mrs. Anerley was at once telegraphed for. Under the circum- 
stances, they did not care to remove Dove to St. Mary -Kirby, 
with the chance of her having to return a few days afterward to 
London. 

“And if I had any misgivings about asking the count to lend 
me the money,” said Mr. Anerley, “ I have none now. If country 
air is necessary to Dove’s health, country air she shall have, some- 
how or other.” 

“ If we cannot manage that, sir,” said Will, “ we had better go 
and bury ourselves for a couple of imbeciles.” 

So it was on the next morning that Mr. Anerley went to Count 
Schonstein’s house in Bayswater. He went early, and found that 
the count had just breakfasted. He was shown up to the draw- 
ing-room. 

It was a large and handsome apartment, showily and somewhat 
tawdrily furnished. A woman’s hand was evidently wanted in 
the place. The pale lavender walls, with their stripes of delicate- 
ly painted panelling, were scratched and smudged here and there ; 
the chintz coverings of the couches and chairs were ragged and 
uneven; and the gauzy drapery of the chandeliers and mirrors 
was about as thick with dust as the ornate books which lay un- 
covered on the tables. There were a hundred other little points 
which a woman’s eye would have detected, but which, on the 
duller masculine perception, only produced a vague feeling of un- 
comfortable disorder and want of cleanliness. 

The count entered in a gorgeously embroidered dressing-gown, 
above the collar of which a black-satin neckerchief was tied round 
his neck in a series of oily folds. 

“ Good-morning, Anerley,” he said, in his grandest manner — 


THE DECISION. 


251 


so grand, indeed, that his visitor was profoundly surprised. In- 
deed, the count very rarely attempted seigniorial airs with his 
Chestnut Bank neighbor. 

It is unnecessary to repeat the details of a very unpleasant in- 
terview. Mr. Anerley explained his position ; the count, while 
not actually refusing to lend him the money, took occasion to 
betray his resentment against Will. The upshot of it was that 
Mr. Anerley, with some dignity, refused the help which the count 
had scarcely offered, and walked out of the house. 

He was a little angry, doubtless, and there was a contemptuous 
curl on his lips as he strode down the street; but these feelings 
soon subsided into a gentler sadness as he thought of Dove and 
the chances of her getting country air. 

He looked up at the large houses on both sides of him, and 
thought how the owners of these houses had only to decide be- 
tween one sheltered sea -side village and another, between this 
gentle climate and that gentler one, for pleasure’s sake ; while he, 
with the health of his darling in the balance, was tied down to 
the thick and clammy atmosphere of the streets. And then he 
thought of how many a tramp, footsore and sickeningly hungry, 
must have looked up at Chestnut Bank, and wondered why God 
had given all his good things — sweet food, and grateful wine, 
and warm clothing, and pleasant society, and comfortable sleep — 
to the occupant of that pleasant-looking place. It was now his 
turn to be envious ; but it was for Dove alone that he coveted a 
portion of their wealth. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE DECISION. 

Dark as was the night on which Will and Annie Brunei had 
wandered along the lonely pavements of Kensington, they had 
not escaped observation. On whatever errand he was bent, Count 
Schonstein happened to be down in that neighborhood on this 
night ; and while these two were so much engaged in mutual con- 
fidences as scarcely to take notice of any passer-by, the count had 
perceived them, and determined to watch them. 


250 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ I’m sure no one ever could be unkind to her” said Will. 

But the visit to Count Schonstein was postponed next morn- 
ing ; for Dove was worse than on the previous night, and was 
fain to remain in bed. Of course, a physician was called in. He 
had a long talk with Mr. Anerley, afterward ; and perhaps it was 
his manner, more than anything he actually said, that disquieted 
Dove’s guardian. What he actually did say was that the young 
girl was evidently very delicate ; that on her tender constitution 
this slight febrile attack might lead to graver consequences ; and 
that she must at once have careful, womanly nursing and country 
air. Per se, her ailment was not of a serious character. 

Mrs. Anerley was at once telegraphed for. Under the circum- 
stances, they did not care to remove Dove to St. Mary- Kirby, 
with the chance of her having to return a few days afterward to 
London. 

“And if I had any misgivings about asking the count to lend 
me the money,” said Mr. Anerley, “ I have none now. If country 
air is necessary to Dove’s health, country air she shall have, some- 
how or other.” 

“ If we cannot manage that , sir,” said Will, “ we had better go 
and bury ourselves for a couple of imbeciles.” 

So it was on the next morning that Mr. Anerley went to Count 
Schonstein’s house in Bayswater. He went early, and found that 
the count had just breakfasted. He was shown up to the draw- 
ing-room. 

It was a large and handsome apartment, showily and somewhat 
tawdrily furnished. A woman’s hand was evidently wanted in 
the place. The pale lavender walls, with their stripes of delicate- 
ly painted panelling, were scratched and smudged here and there ; 
the chintz coverings of the couches and chairs were ragged and 
uneven ; and the gauzy drapery of the chandeliers and mirrors 
was about as thick with dust as the ornate books which lay un- 
covered on the tables. There were a hundred other little points 
which a woman’s eye would have detected, but which, on the 
duller masculine perception, only produced a vague feeling of un- 
comfortable disorder and want of cleanliness. 

The count entered in a gorgeously embroidered dressing-gown, 
above the collar of which a black-satin neckerchief was tied round 
his neck in a series of oily folds. 

“ Good-morning, Anerley,” he said, in his grandest manner — 


THE DECISION. 


251 


so grand, indeed, that his visitor was profoundly surprised. In- 
deed, the count very rarely attempted seigniorial airs with his 
Chestnut Bank neighbor. 

It is unnecessary to repeat the details of a very unpleasant in- 
terview. Mr. Anerley explained his position ; the count, while 
not actually refusing to lend him the money, took occasion to 
betray his resentment against Will. The upshot of it was that 
Mr. Anerley, with some dignity, refused the help which the count 
had scarcely offered, and walked out of the house. 

He was a little angry, doubtless, and there was a contemptuous 
curl on his lips as he strode down the street; but these feelings 
soon subsided into a gentler sadness as he thought of Dove and 
the chances of her getting country air. 

He looked up at the large houses on both sides of him, and 
thought how the owners of these houses had only to decide be- 
tween one sheltered sea -side village and another, between this 
gentle climate and that gentler one, for pleasure’s sake ; while he, 
with the health of his darling in the balance, was tied down to 
the thick and clammy atmosphere of the streets. And then he 
thought of how many a tramp, footsore and sickeningly hungry, 
must have looked up at Chestnut Bank, and wondered why God 
had given all his good things — sweet food, and grateful wine, 
and warm clothing, and pleasant society, and comfortable sleep — 
to the occupant of that pleasant-looking place. It was now his 
turn to be envious ; but it was for Dove alone that he coveted a 
portion of their wealth. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE DECISION. 

Dark as was the night on which Will and Annie Brunei had 
wandered along the lonely pavements of Kensington, they had 
not escaped observation. On whatever errand he was bent, Count 
Schonstein happened to be down in that neighborhood on this 
night ; and while these two were so much engaged in mutual con- 
fidences as scarcely to take notice of any passer-by, the count had 
perceived them, and determined to watch them. 


252 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


This he did during the whole of the time they remained out- 
side. What he gathered from his observations was not much. 
At another time he would have paid little attention to their walk- 
ing together for an hour or two ; but that at this very time, when 
she was supposed to be considering whether she would become 
the count’s wife, she should be strolling about at night with one 
who was evidently on very intimate terms with her — this awaken- 
ed the count’s suspicions and wrath. But the more he watched, 
the more he was puzzled. They did not bear the demeanor of 
lovers ; yet what they said was evidently of deep interest to them 
both. There was no self-satisfied joy in their faces — rather an 
anxious and tender sadness ; and yet they seemed to find satisfac- 
tion in this converso, and were evidently in no hurry to return to 
the house. 

Once Miss Brunei had returned to the house, the count relin- 
quished further watch. He therefore did not witness Will’s re- 
call. But he had seen enough greatly to disquiet him ; and as he 
went homeward, he resolved to have a clear understanding with 
Miss Brunei on the following morning. He believed he had 
granted her sufficient time to make up her mind ; and, undoubt- 
edly, when he came to put the question point-blank, he found 
that her mind was made up. 

Briefly, she gave him to understand that she never could, and 
that she never would, be his wife. Perhaps she announced her 
determination all the more curtly, in that her sorrow for the loss 
of Mrs. Christmas seemed to render the count’s demand at such 
a moment an insult. 

The poor count was in a dreadful way. In this crisis he quite 
forgot all about the reasons which had first induced him to culti- 
vate Annie Brunei’s society, and honestly felt that if her present 
decision were persevered in life was of no further use or good 
to him. 

“I am sorry,” she said, “I have given you pain. But you 
asked me to speak plainly, and I have done so.” 

“You have so astonished me — your tone when we last saw 
each other at least gave me the right to anticipate — ” 

“ There I have to beg for your forgiveness. I was very wrong. 
I did not know my own mind — I could come to no decision.” 

“May I venture to ask what enabled you to come to a de- 
cision ?” 


THE DECISION. 


253 


“ I would rather not answer the question,” she replied, coldly. 

“ Will you tell me if your mind was made up yesterday morn- 
ing ?” he asked, insidiously. 

“ It was not. But pray, Count Schonstein, don’t say anything 
more about this at present. Consider the position I am in just 
now — ” 

“ I only wish to have a few words from you for my further 
guidance, Miss Brunei,” he said. “You came to this decision 
last night. Last night you saw Mr. Anerley. Have I not a right 
to ask you if he had anything to do with it ?” 

“You have no such right,” she said, indignantly. 

“Then I take your refusal to mean that he had. Are you 
aware that he is engaged to be married? Do you know that he 
is a beggar, and his father also ? Do you know — ?” 

“I hope I may be allowed to be free from insult in my own 
house,” she said, as she rose and, with a wonderful dignity, and pride, 
and grace that abashed and awed him, walked out of the room. 

A dim sort of compunction seized him, and he would willingly 
have followed her, and begged her to pardon what he had said. 
Then he, too, felt a little hurt, remembering that he was a count, 
and she an actress. Finally, he quietly withdrew, found a ser- 
vant at the door waiting to let him out, and departed from the 
house with a heavy heart. 

“ A woman’s ‘ no ’ generally means ‘ yes,’ ” he said to himself, 
disconsolately trying to extract comfort from the old proverb. 

He would not despair. Perhaps the time had been inoppor- 
tune. Perhaps he should have postponed the crisis when he 
learned of Mrs. Christmas’s death. Then he reflected that he had 
been so intent on his own purpose as to forget to offer the most 
ordinary condolences. 

“ That is it,” he said. “ She is offended by my having spoken 
at such a time.” 

The count was a shifty man, and invariably found hope in the 
mere fact of having something to do. There was yet opportunity 
to retrieve his blunder. So he drove to the office of Cayley & 
Hubbard, and found his meek brother sitting in his room. 

“ I never come to see you except when I am in trouble,” said 
the count, with a grim smile. 

“I am always glad to see you, Frederick. What is your 
trouble now ?” 


254 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Oh, the old affair. She has left the theatre, as you know ; 
she has lost that old woman ; she is quite alone and penniless ; and, 
this morning, when I offered to make her my wife, she said no.” 

“ What were her reasons ?” 

“A woman never has any. But I think I vexed her in mak- 
ing the proposal when the corpse was lying in the next room. 
It was rather rum, wasn’t it? And then she had been crying, 
and very likely did not wish to be disturbed. However, I don’t 
despair. No. Look at her position. She can't live unless she 
accepts assistance from me.” 

“ Unless—” 

Mr. John Hubbard did not complete the sentence, but his face 
twitched more nervously than ever. 

“ Who could tell her ?” asked the count, angrily. 

“ She may get assistance from those other people — ” 

“ The Anerleys ?” replied the count, with a splendid laugh. 
“ Why, man, every penny of old Anerley’s money is with Miall & 
Welling. Safe-keeping there, eh ? Bless you, she has no alter- 
native — except this, that she’s sure to run off and disappear sud- 
denly in some wild attempt at becoming a governess. I know 
she means something that way.” 

“And then you’ll lose sight of her,” said the thin-faced broth- 
er, peering into the slip of gray sky visible through the small and 
dusty window. 

What his thoughts were at this moment he revealed to his wife 
at night. 

“ My dear,” he said, in dulcet tones, “ I am afraid my brother 
is a very selfish man, and wants to get this poor girl’s money. If 
she were to become friends with us , we might guard her against 
him. Indeed, it might only be fair to tell her what money awaits 
her, whenever she chooses to take it; and perhaps, you know, 
Jane, she might give a little present to the children, out of grati- 
tude, you know.” 

“A few thousand pounds would be nothing to her , John,” said 
the wife, thinking of her darling boys. 

“And Fred’s money he’s sure to keep to himself. He seems 
to have no idea that his family have claims upon him.” 

However, to return to the count, he then proceeded to unfold 
to his brother the plan he had conceived for the entrapping of 
this golden-crested wren which was so likely to fly away : 


THE DECISION. 


255 


“ All the little money she may have saved will he swallowed 
up in the funeral expenses. After that — what ? Music lessons, 
or French, or something. Very good. I know she has been al- 
ready watching the advertisements in the Times. Now what I 
want you to do is this — publish an advertisement which will at- 
tract her attention, and secure her as a governess.” 

The two men had thought of the same thing at the same mo- 
ment, each for his own purpose. . But John Hubbard suddenly 
began to fear that he would be made a cat’s-paw of by his more 
favored brother. 

“ The name, Frederick, might suggest to her — ” 

“ I don’t think she knows my personal name,” said the count, 
coldly. “ Besides, you would not advertise as Cayley & Hubbard, 
which might remind her of one resource open to her, and you 
would not advertise as my brother, which would frighten her 
away. Let Jane advertise — she will do it better than either of 
us ; and if it is necessary to get rid of your present governess, 
you can give her some small solatium , which I will repay you.” 

This was the advertisement which was finally concocted between 
them : 

“ Wanted , a Governess. Must be thoroughly proficient in mu- 
sic and French. One who could assist in arranging private the- 
atricals preferred. Apply fi etc., etc. 

It was submitted by Mr. John Hubbard to the inspection of his 
wife ; and the mild, fat, pretty little woman approved of it. 

“ This is how I fancy we might get acquainted with her, my 
dear ; and you know Frederick dare not come near the house at 
first, or she would be frightened away at once. Then, you know, 
we could be very kind to her, and make her grateful. She ought 
to be grateful, considering her position.” 

Jane acquiesced, but was not hopeful. She had heard her hus- 
band frequently speak of the strange things he encountered in 
his professional career, but she had never herself seen any of 
them. She did not believe, therefore, that any portion of a ro- 
mance could be enacted in her prosaic house. 

“ It would be very nice,” she said to her husband, “ if it all 
came right, and we were to be friends with such a rich lady ; and 
if she would only give the children something to make them in- 
dependent of their uncle Frederick. I’m not fond of money for 
its own sake ; but for the children, my dear — ” 


256 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“Yes, the children are to be considered,” said John, wondering 
whether his pretty, placid, good-natured little wife believed that 
he believed that she believed what she said. 

“ I am sure a lady so well-born will be a charming companion,” 
said Mrs. John, “ whether she has been an actress or not.” 

“ And we must change the sherry,” said her husband. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

CONFESSION. 

By the time that Mrs. Anerley arrived, Dove was sufficiently 
well to suffer removal from the hotel ; and as there was now no 
help for it, the whole family removed to those rooms which Will 
had engaged for them from his landlord. The position of affairs 
had now to be disclosed ; and with all the cheerfulness and mut- 
ual consolation they could muster, the prospect seemed doleful 
enough. Every one seemed to be chiefly concerned for Dove, 
and Dove was the least concerned of all. She put her arm round 
Mr. Anerley’s neck, as he bent over the couch on which she lay, 
and whispered to him, 

“ You have lost all your shooting, poor papa.” 

“Yes.” 

“ But then you have me. I’m as good as the biggest partridge 
you ever saw, am I not ?” 

“ I think you are, darling.” 

“And you have lost all your fishing, poor papa.” 

“ Yes, that too.” 

“ But did you ever get a trout to kiss you as I do?” 

Which was followed by the usual caress. 

“ And you won’t have such lots of wine ; but you know, papa, 
how angry you used to be when people did not appreciate what 
you thought was good.” 

“And where is my little Dove to get her port-wine after din- 
ner on Sunday ?” said he. 

“You’ll see, papa. Just after dinner, when we’re all sitting at 
the table, and you are looking sadly at the dry walnuts, and ev- 
erybody is thinking about the nice Sundays down in the country, 


CONFESSION. 


25V 


you know, there will be a little rustling, and a little murmur of 
music in the air — somewhere near the roof ; and all at once two 
bottles of wine will be hung round your neck by the fairies — for 
it’s only you who care about it, you know — and everybody will 
laugh at you. That is the punishment for thinking about port- 
wine. Do I want port -wine? You’re an old cheat, papa, and 
try to make me believe I am ill that you may have your port-wine 
on Sunday. But I am not, and I won’t have any extravagance.” 

He, with a great pain at his heart, saw the forced look of cheer- 
fulness on her sweet face, and made some abominable vow about 
selling his mother’s marriage-ring before Dove should want her 
port- wine. 

Dove was really so well, however, when Mrs. Anerley came, that 
the anxious and tender mamma was almost at a loss how to ex- 
pend the care and sympathy with which she had charged herself. 
It was at this juncture that Will proposed that Mr. and Mrs. An- 
erley should go and see Annie Brunei, and give her what comfort 
and assistance lay in their power ; and no sooner were the cir- 
cumstances of the girl’s position mentioned, than both at once, 
and gladly, consented. 

“ But why not come with us ?” said his mother. 

“ I would rather you went by yourselves. She will be only too 
grateful if you go to see her. She does not know how to manage 
a funeral. Then she is alone; you will be able to speak to her 
better than I, and, in any case, I must remain with Dove.” 

So they went, and when they were gone, Dove asked him to 
come and seat himself beside her couch. She put out her little 
white hand to him, and he noticed that her eyes were singularly 
large and clear. They were fixed upon him with the old tender 
sadness, and he was forced to think of the time when heaven it- 
self seemed open to him in those beautiful, transparent depths. 
But why should they be sad ? He remembered the old delight 
of them, the mystery of them, the kindness of them ; and per- 
haps he thought that in a little time he would be able to awaken 
the old light in them, and rejoice in the gladness, and be honest- 
ly, wholly in love with his future wife. 

“ Why didn’t you go with them ?” she asked. 

“ And leave you alone ?” 

He could have wished that those eyes were less frank and less 
penetrating. 


258 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Sometimes I fancy, Will, that you think me a great baby, 
and that there is no use explaining things to me, and that I am 
only to be petted and treated like a child. And so you have 
always petted me, like the rest, and I liked it very well, as you 
know. But if I am to be your wife, Will, you mustn’t treat me 
as a child any more.” 

“Would you like to be old and wise and motherly, Dove? 
How must I treat you? You know you are only a poor little 
child, my dearest ; but then, when we marry, you will suddenly 
grow very old.” 

There was no glad pleasure and hope in his voice, and doubt- 
less she caught the tone of his speech, for the large eyes were ab- 
sent and troubled. 

“ You are not frank with me, Will,” she said, in a low voice. 
“You won’t explain the difference there has been in you ever 
since you came back from Germany. Ah, such a difference!” 
she added, with a sigh, and her eyes were withdrawn from his 
face. “ Perhaps I only imagine it, but everything seems altered. 
We are not to each other what we used to be : you are kinder 
than ever, I think, and you want to be what you were ; but some- 
thing has come between us, Will.” 

Every word she uttered lacerated his heart, for how could he 
look upon the patient, kind, sweet face, and tell a lie ? — and how 
dared he tell the truth ? 

“ Come closer, Will. Bend your head down, and I’ll whisper 
something to you. It is this : Ever since you came back from 
Germany I have been wretched, without knowing why. Many a 
time I was going to tell you ; then you always looked as if you 
were not as much my friend as you used to be, and I dared not 
do it. You have not been frank with me, and I have seen it 
often and often as I have watched you, and my heart used to lie 
cold and still like lead. And oh, Will, do you know what I’ve 
been thinking? I’ve been thinking that you don’t love me any 
more !” 

She turned away her agonized face from him, and a slight 
shudder ran through her frame. 

“ Dove, listen to me — ” 

“ And if it is true, Will,” she said, with trembling lips, her face 
still being turned from him — “ if it is true, don’t tell me that it 
is. Will ; how could I bear to hear you say that ? I should only 


CONFESSION. 


259 


wish to die at once, and be out of everybody’s way — out of your 
way too, Will, if I am in the way. I never expected to talk like 
this to you — never, never; for I used to think — down there in 
St. Mary -Kirby, you know — that you could never do anything 
but love me, and that we should always go on the same wherever 
we were. But things are all changed, Will. It was never the 
same after you left the last time, and since you have come back 
they have changed more and more. And now up here in Lon- 
don, it seems as if all the old life were broken away, and we two 
had only been dreaming down there. And I have been sick at 
heart, and wretched ; and when I found myself ill the other day, 
I wished I might die.” 

He had destroyed that beautiful world ; and he knew it, al- 
though there was no chorus of spirits to sing to him, 

“Weh! weh! 

Du hast sie zerstort, 

Die schone Welt! 

Mit machtiger Faust ; 

Sie stiirzt, sie zerf allt ! 

* * * * 

Prachtiger 
Baue sie wieder ; 

In demem Busen baue sie auf 
Neuen Lebenslauf 
Beginne, 

Mit hellem Sinne 
Und neue Lieder 
Tonen darauf !” 

Was it possible for him to build it up again, and restore the 
old love and the old confidence? It was not until this heart- 
broken wail was wrung from the poor girl that he fully saw the 
desolation that had fallen upon them. Bitterly he accused him- 
self of all that had happened, and vainly he looked about for 
some brief solace he might now offer her. 

“You don’t say anything,” she murmured, “because you have 
been always kind to me, and you do not wish to pain me. But 
I know it is true, Will, whether you speak or not. Everything 
is changed now — everything; and — and I’ve heard, Will, that 
when one is heart-broken, one dies.” 

“ If you do not wish to break my heart, Dove, don’t talk like 
that,” he said, beside himself with despair and remorse. “ See ; 


260 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


give me your hand, and I’ll tell you all about it. Turn your eyes 
to me, dearest. We are a little changed, I know ; but what does 
it matter ? So soon as ever we can we shall marry, Dove, and 
then the old confidence will come back again. I have been away 
so much from you that we have lost our old familiarity; but 
when we are married, you know — ” 

Then she turned, and the beautiful violet eyes were once more 
reading his face. 

“ You wish us to be married, Will ?” 

“ My darling, I do !” he said, eagerly, honestly, joyously ; for in 
the mere thought that thereby he might make some reparation 
there lay peace and assurance for the future. “ I wish that we 
could be married to-morrow morning.” 

She pressed his hand, and lay back on the cushion with a sigh. 
There was a pale, wan pleasure in her face, and a satisfied languor 
in her eyes. 

“ I think I shall make a very good wife,” she said, a little while 
after, with the old smile on her face. “ But I shall have to be 
petted, and cared for, and spoiled, just as before. I don’t think 
I should wish to be treated differently if I knew you were frank 
with me, and explained your griefs to me, and so on. I wished, 
darling, to be older, and out of this spoiling, because I thought 
you considered me such a baby — ” 

“ You will be no longer a baby when you are married. Think 
of yourself as a married woman, Dove — the importance you will 
have, the dignity you will assume. Think of yourself presiding 
over your own tea-table — think of yourself choosing a house 
down near Hastings, and making wonderful arrangements with 
the milkman and the butcher; and getting into a terrible rage 
when they forget your orders, and blaming all their negligence 
on me.” 

“ My dear, I don’t think I shall have anything to do with 
butchers and milkmen.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because I don’t think you will ever have any money to pay 
them with.” 

“ So long as I have only one arm with which to work for you, 
Dove, you must learn to live on little ; but still — ” 

“ I shall not want much, shall I, if I have you beside me to 
make me forget that I am hungry? But it all looks like a 


CONFESSION. 


261 


dream, just like what is past. Are the} 7 both dreams, dearest? 
Were those real times down in the old house, when you and I 
used to sit together, or walk out together, over the common, you 
know, and over the bridge by the mill-head, and away over the 
meadows down by that strip of wood, and so on, and so on, until 
we came to the river again, and the road, and Balnacluith House, 
and the deer-park ? How pleasant it was, in the summer even- 
ings : but that seems so long ago !” 

“ How sad you have been these last few days, Hove !” 

“ Because I have been thinking, Will. And all that seems a 
dream, and all that is coming seems a dream, and there is nothing 
real but just now, and then I find you and me estranged from 
each other. Ah, yes, Will ; you are very kind in speaking of 
our marriage ; but we are not now what we were once.” 

“ Hove,” he said, with a desperate effort, “ I cannot bear this 
any 'longer. If you go on moping like this, you will kill your- 
self. It is better you should know all the truth at once : you 
will listen, dearest, and forgive me, and help me to make the best 
we can of the future.” 

There was a quick sparkle of joy in her eyes. 

“ Oh, Will, Will, are you going to tell me all now 

“Yes, dearest.” 

“Then you needn’t speak a word — not a word — for I know 
you love me, after all. Perhaps not altogether, but quite enough 
to satisfy me, Will ; and I am so glad — so glad !” 

She burst into tears, and hid her face from him. 

He scarcely knew whether grief or joy was the cause of this 
emotion ; but in a minute or two she said, 

“ I am going to whisper something to you. You fell in love 
with Miss Brunei when you were over in Germany, and you 
found it out when it was too late, and you did not know what 
to do. Your kindness brought you back to me, though your 
thoughts were with her. Is it not all true I have been telling 
you? And I was afraid it would be so always, and that you 
and I were parted forever ; for you hid the secret from me, and 
dared not tell me. But the moment I saw in your eyes that you 
were going to tell me, I knew some of the old love must be there 
— some of our old confidence ; and now — now — oh, my darling, 
I can trust you with my life, and my heart, and all the love I can 
offer you !” 


262 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“You have spoken the truth, Dove,” he said — and he knew 
that her rare womanly instinct had not lied to her — “and you 
have made me happier than I have been for many a day. You 
do not blame me much for what is past and gone ? And you see 
that, after all, the old love may come back between us ; and you 
will help me to bring it back, and keep it safe.” 

“And I will be a true wife to you, Will.” 

She fixed her eyes gravely and earnestly upon him. Then she 
lifted his hand to her lips, and — bethinking herself, perhaps, of 
some quaint foreign custom of which she may have heard — she 
kissed it, in token of meek submission and wifely self-surrender. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE BAIT IS TAKEN. 

Mrs. Anerley felt very nervous in going to visit Miss Brunei. 
She had never seen an actress in private life ; and on the stage 
this particular actress had seemed so grand and majestic — so 
thoroughly out of and beyond the ordinary sphere of every-day 
existence — that she almost feared to approach so glorious a 
creature. 

She was very particular about her dress; and perhaps she in- 
wardly composed a few phrases to break the difficulty of intro- 
duction. 

But there was no awkwardness where Mr. Anerley was con- 
cerned. He went forward and took the girl by the hand, and 
told her, in as gentle a way as possible, the object of their mission. 
She was apparently much touched by this sign of their thought- 
fulness and goodness, and said so briefly. Mrs. Anerley forgot 
all her prepared little speeches. While her husband talked to 
Annie Brunei, she stood and watched the strange intensity of the 
girl’s large dark-gray eyes. There was no embarrassment there, 
and no scanning of the embarrassment of others ; they were too 
absent, and yet full of a strong personal feeling, which showed 
itself as she accepted, with great gratitude, Mr. Anerley’s offer. 

“There is one other thing you ought to do,” he said. “Get 
away from the house at once.” 


THE BAIT IS TAKEN. 


263 


“ If we could only have asked you to come down to our house 
in the country for a few days,” said Mrs. Anerley, in her kindly 
way, “ that would have been the best thing for you, and a great 
pleasure to us.” 

“You would have asked me to visit your home!” said the 
young girl, suddenly flashing her clear, honest eyes on Mrs. Aner- 
ley’s face. 

“ Yes — why not?” said Mrs. Anerley, almost in fright, fancying 
she had committed herself. 

“ You are very kind indeed,” said Annie Brunei. “Actresses 
are not accustomed to such kindness — especially from stran- 
gers.” 

“ But you mustn’t call us strangers,” said Mr. Anerley, good- 
naturedly. “ We have the pleasure of knowing you very well ; 
and in a few days we hope you will know something of us, if we 
can be of any service to you. To live in this house alone, with 
these sad remembrances, is very unwise, and in a day or two you 
must leave it.” 

“Yes, I must leave it — because I must go where I can earn my 
bread. Has your son told you, sir, that I have left the stage? 
So I have ; but at present I have no clear idea of what I must do 
— and yet I must do something.” 

“I am afraid you have placed yourself in a very perilous 
position,” said Mr. Anerley. 

“ But I got to dislike the stage so much that I had to leave 
it.” 

“ Why you should have left the stage !” exclaimed Mrs. Aner- 
ley, in open admiration, leaving the sentence unfinished. 

Annie Brunei looked at her for a moment, and said, slowly, 

“ I have been very fortunate in giving you a good impression 
of myself. I thought most ladies outside the theatre looked 
down upon us theatre-folk ; and I was afraid you had come here 
only at your son’s solicitation, with a sort of — ” 

“Ah, don’t say any more,” said Mrs. Anerley, with a genuine 
pain on her face. “ It is not right to judge of people like that. 
I wish I could only show you what Dove and I would like to do 
in taking you among us, and making you comfortable, until you 
should forget this sad blow.” 

“ As for her ,” said Miss Brunei, with a smile, “ I knew she was 
too gentle and good to despise any one the moment I saw her. 


2G4 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


But she was so much sweeter and truer than ordinary women 
that I accounted for it on that ground ; and I grew so fond of 
her in a few minutes ! And you, too — what can I offer you for 
your goodness to me but my gratitude and my love ?” 

“ My poor girl !” said Mrs. Anerley, with a touch of moisture 
in the corner of her eyes, “ I hope we may have some opportunity 
of proving to you what we think of you.” 

Mr. Anerley found that Will had explained to Miss Brunei the 
circumstances in which the family were now placed ; so that he 
was relieved from the embarrassment of saying that whatever aid 
he might give her would not be pecuniary aid. But he had not 
much experience yet of the girl to whom he was speaking — of 
the quaint plainness and directness of her speech, the very an- 
tithesis of the style and manner which Mrs. Anerley had expected 
to meet. 

Annie Brunei told him what small savings she possessed, and 
asked him if these could be made to cover all the expenses of the 
funeral, so that she might start on her new career unencumbered 
with debt. He thought it might be done, and he at once as- 
sumed the management of the sad details of the business before 
them. 

“ But then,” she said, “ I have the servant to pay ; and I don’t 
know what arrangement I may be able to make with the land- 
lord of the house. Hitherto he has been very obliging.” 

“ That, also, I will look after,” said Mr. Anerley, “ if you can 
put confidence in a man who has so successfully managed his 
own affairs as to bring his whole family into poverty.” 

“And I — can I do nothing for yon?” said Mrs. Anerley. 
“We who are all suffering from some kind of trouble should be 
glad to accept help from each other. Now, tell me — the clothes 
you may want — what have you done ?” 

“ I had just begun to look over some things when you came 
in.” 

“ Shall I stay and help you until dinner-time ? Do let me.” 

And so, while Mr. Anerley went off to see the landlord, Mrs. 
Anerley stayed behind and lent her assistance to that work in 
which the feminine heart, even when overshadowed by a funeral, 
finds consolation and delight. And she afterward declared that 
she had never worked with a pleasanter companion than this 
patient, self-possessed, and cheerful girl, whose queenly gestures, 


THE BAIT IS TAKEN. 


265 


and rich voice, and dark, clear face had so entranced and awed 
her when Juliet came upon the stage. 

The two women became confidential with each other in the 
most natural and easy way. Mrs. Anerley entirely forgot the 
actress, and became wonderfully fond of and familiar with this 
quaint-mannered girl, with the splendid hair and the honest eyes. 

“ For my own part,” she said to her, “ I am not at all sorry 
that my husband has lost this money, if it were not likely to af- 
fect Dove’s comfort. You know he is such a very good man, 
and the very kindest and best husband a woman could wish to 
have ; but I cannot tell you how it troubles me sometimes to 
think that he is not of the same religious opinions as the rest of 
us. That is the only thing ; and I am sure it has been brought 
on by his being too well off, and having nothing to do but read 
and speculate. He has never been put in a position requiring 
that aid and comfort we get from religious service ; and it is only 
carelessness, I am convinced, has led him away.” 

“And now you think this misfortune — ” 

“Not the misfortune altogether, but the rougher fight he will 
have with the world. He will be glad to have that sense of peace 
and rest with which people sit together in church, and forget 
their every-day troubles. If it will only do that for him — if it 
will only bring him back to us — I shall be glad that we have lost 
every penny we had in the world. It has been my trouble for 
years to think of his perilous state.” 

“ He does not look like a man who would believe anything 
dangerous.” 

“ I hope not — I hope not,” said the tender wife ; “ I hope it is 
not dangerous. And yet I shall never feel that he is safe until 
he returns to the old faith and opinions he had when I first knew 
him. Even then, when a very young man, I was never sure of 
him. But he was always so respectful to every kind of religion, 
whether he believed in it or not, that I — yes, I — took him on 
trust.” 

“You do not seem to have regretted your choice,” said Annie 
Brunei. 

“ No,” she said, with a pleased and proud smile. “You won’t 
find many people live more comfortably than we. But there is 
that one thing, you see — ” 

“ And your son — does he go with his father in these things?” 


266 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ I don’t think so. I hope not. But both of them are such 
good men that I can’t make up my mind to go and speak to them 
as if — as if they were sinners, you know.” 

A perplexed, humorous smile came over her face ; and yet An- 
nie saw that her friend was very much in earnest over this matter. 
It was the one bitter thing in this good woman’s contented and 
peaceful lot. 

After that interview Mrs. Anerley spent the better part of each 
day with her new protegee ; and a wonderful love grew up be- 
tween the two women — motherly and tender on the one side, 
trusting and childlike on the other. And for the first day or two 
Mr. Anerley paid far more attention to Annie Brunei’s affairs 
than he did to his own, until Mrs. Christmas was hidden away 
from a world that had perhaps not been over-kind to her, and un- 
til the young girl was ready to go forth and seek her own exist- 
ence. Will, during this time, never came near. He was trying 
to repair the beautiful world that he had shattered, and he kept 
faithfully to the task. 

Finally, there came the question as to how Annie Brunei was 
to earn a living, and the Times was again called into requisition. 
Many a weary hour did Mrs. Anerley and her charge spend in 
reading through the advertisements, and writing letters in reply 
to those which seemed most suitable. No answer came to any 
one of these applications. For some reason or other, they had 
not thought it worth while to reply to the advertisement about 
music,- French, and private theatricals; but at last the pertinacity 
with which the lines appeared in the newspaper drew discussion 
down upon them. 

“ If I were to be asked how I became proficient in theatricals, 
I should have to say I was on the stage ; and I don’t wish to do 
that.” 

“ Why, dear ?” 

“Because the people might say they did not wish to have an 
actress in the house, and I want to avoid the insult.” 

“ My dear, you have the absurdest notions. If they had seen 
you on the stage, they will be all the more delighted to have you. 
It was because you were an actress, I firmly believe, that I came 
to see you ; and in a few days I have made a daughter of you.” 

“ Nobody, seems inclined to answer my letters,” said the girl, 
ruefully. 


THE BAIT IS TAKEN. 


26 V 


“You may wait and wait for months,” said Mrs. Anerley. 
“Add this one to the number, and tell them who you are. But 
you must tell them that you only want a small salary, or they 
will never think of engaging you.” 

So the letter was written in accordance with these suggestions, 
and posted with several others. By that night’s post — and the 
exceeding swiftness of the response might have provoked some 
suspicion in less unworldly minds — there came a letter. Annie 
Brunei was alone. She saw by the unknown handwriting that 
the letter was likely to be a reply to one of her applications ; and 
for a minute or two she allowed the envelope to remain unopened, 
while she wondered what sort of destiny lay folded within it. 

These were the words she read : 

“Rose Villa, Haverstock Hill, October 29th, 18 — . 

“ Mrs. John Hubbard presents compliments to Miss Brunei ; is 
exceedingly obliged by the offer of her valuable assistance ; and 
would Miss Brunei be good enough to call, at her convenience, 
any forenoon between ten and two? Mrs. Hubbard hopes that 
if Miss Brunei can be induced to accept the situation which lies 
at her disposal, nothing will be wanting to render her position in 
the house more that of a friend than an instructress. Mrs. Hub- 
bard hopes her proposal, when properly explained to Miss Brunei, 
will meet with Miss Brunei’s favorable consideration.” 

This to a governess ! The girl scarcely knew how to regard 
the letter — so familiar, so respectful, so anxious. 

“ Here is another person who does not object to my being an 
actress. And I am to be her friend !” 

She came to the conclusion that a lady who could so write to 
a perfect stranger must either be mad, or have an idea that, in 
asking Annie Brunei to her house, it was Juliet or Rosalind who 
might be expected to come. 


268 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE NEW GOVERNESS. 

It was a cold, wet day, in the beginning of November, when 
Annie Brunei got out of the Hampstead ’bus, and found herself 
in the muddy highway of Haverstock Hill : a wet and cheerless 
day, with a damp and cutting wind, and a perpetual drizzling 
rain, that made the black stems of the leafless trees glisten and 
drip — a day to make the people who passed each other in the 
street, vainly muffled up against the wet and the keen cold, hate 
each other with a vague and gratuitous hatred. There was 
scarcely a traveller on foot who did not regard all others in a 
similar plight as somehow responsible for the contrariety of the 
elements. 

“What a pity you should have come to-day!” cried Mrs. John 
Hubbard, as she came into the hall to receive her visitor. “ I 
would rather you had broken a dozen appointments. I hope you 
are not wet — I hope you are not cold. Come into the drawing- 
room at once ; there is a nice warm fire to bring the blood to 
your fingers again.” 

During this speech Annie Brunei had time to examine her 
future mistress. She was not obviously mad. Indeed, the coal- 
black hair, the rosy cheeks, the small and pretty mouth, the neat 
figure and small hands, were the natural ornaments of a person 
who seemed mentally far too colorless and contented ever to be 
troubled by intellectual derangement. Yet the new governess 
was as much puzzled by her reception as by the letter she had 
received. 

“ There now, take this easy-chair — let me draw it in for you — 
and we shall have a chat over the matter. I have hitherto only 
had a morning governess, you know : the poor girl took unwell 
some time ago, and she has not been here for some days now.” 

At this precise moment Miss Betham was up -stairs, packing 
her music and preparing for final departure. But to the good- 
natured and mentally limp Mrs. Hubbard lying came as easily as 


THE NEW GOVERNESS. 


269 


telling the truth. She would not have told a lie to secure a par- 
ticular end, but in the course of conversation she did not seem 
to recognize the necessity of being exact in her statements. She 
lied broadly and often, but she lied harmlessly — at least, she 
meant to do no harm by her lying. 

“ I won’t ask you any questions, Miss Brunei — not one. You 
have your own reasons for leaving the stage ; and I’m not going 
to quarrel with what enables me to have your assistance (if we 
can make arrangements, that is), which I don’t doubt for a mo- 
ment.” 

“ I am quite inexperienced, as I told you in my letter.” 

“ Oh, that does not signify,” said the other, affably. 

Annie Brunei looked up with a glance of astonishment, which 
any woman not a fool would have noticed. 

“ And if you think that I know enough to attempt to get into 
the way of teaching, I shall leave all the other arrangements to 
you. I am not anxious about the salary you may be inclined to 
give me ; because, after all, it is only a trial. And if you think 
I am worth to you, in the mean time, so much per week as will 
keep me in food and pay my lodgings — ” 

“ Your lodgings ! I could not think of submitting you to the 
misery of lodgings so long as I have a comfortable room to offer 
you.” 

Mrs. Hubbard did not look like a practical joker ; but her re- 
ception of the new governess looked uncommonly like a practi- 
cal joke. 

“You are very kind,” said Annie, the wide eyes being a little 
wider than usual ; “ but I thought it was as a day-governess — ” 

“To be sure, we have always had a day -governess. But in 
your case I should prefer a resident governess, especially if you 
are about to leave your home and take lodgings.” 

“I meant to take lodgings somewhere near you, if I had the 
good-fortune to please you.” 

“ In this neighborhood you couldn’t get lodgings ; and if you 
go down to Camden Town, or over to Kentish Town — oh, my 
dear, I couldn’t think of it! My husband is very particular 
about everybody connected with us being treated fairly — like one 
of ourselves, you understand ; and as soon as he heard of your 
being inclined to answer the advertisement, lie said, ‘ I hope Miss 
Brunei will find a comfortable home here.’ ” 


270 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


This was another lie: indeed, what little intellect the poor 
woman had chiefly took the form of invention. 

“ I am not anxious to go into lodgings,” said Annie Brunei, 
with a smile, “ as I had a good deal of experience of them at one 
time.” 

“ Shall we consider it settled, then ?” 

“ But you do not know whether I am fit for the duties you 
require.” 

“What an objection ! I know you are.” 

“ Then, as to terms — ” 

“We sha’n’t quarrel about terms. Come and stay with us as 
soon as you can, and we’ll make everything comfortable and 
agreeable for you, and we’ll settle about terms afterward. Then, 
you know, we shall have private theatricals to amuse you.” 

In certain stories, and in not a few dramas, Annie Brunei had 
seen a perfect stranger suddenly determine to play the part of a 
special Providence towards the heroine; but she was lost in as- 
tonishment to meet that incomprehensible friend in real life. 
Here she was, however ; and when it is manna that the clouds 
rain, there is little reason in putting up an umbrella. 

Mrs. Hubbard rung the bell, and sent a servant for the chil- 
dren. They came trooping down to the drawing-room, pushing 
each other, and looking very shy and a trifle sulky. 

“This is the lady who will help you with your lessons now, 
my dears, since Miss Betham has gone.” 

“ Miss Betham hasn’t gone — she is up-stairs yet,” said Master 
Alexander, “ and she has just told Kate to fetch her her sherry.” 

“Ah ! come to look after some music she has left behind, per- 
haps,” said Mrs. Hubbard, with a significant nod to Annie. 

“ You will find the children very obedient,” she continued, 
“ and nothing shall be wanting to add to your comfort. May 
we conclude the bargain to be settled ?” 

“ Certainly, so far as I am concerned,” said the girl. 

These were the agreeable tidings which awaited Mr. John Hub- 
bard when he returned home that night. 

“ She is such a charming person !” said his wife ; “ I don’t 
wonder at your brother being fond of her.” 

“He is fond of her money,” said John Hubbard, gloomily, 
“ and fancies himself sure of it now.” 

“ It would be very wicked to take advantage of the girl’s inno- 


ANOTHER BLUNDER. 


271 


cence in any way,” said Mrs. Hubbard, a proposition to which 
her husband assented. 

“ But if we can touch her gratitude, my dear,” said he, “ there 
is no saying, as I told you before, what might happen.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

ANOTHER BLUNDER. 

The old year died out; the new one came in — not attended 
with any very bright auspices for the persons concerned in this 
story. John Hubbard was, perhaps, the only one of them who 
was pleased with present events, and hopeful for the future. Dur- 
ing many a secret conclave with his good-natured, pretty, limp, 
and lying little wife, he speculated on what shape his governess’s 
gratitude would ultimately assume. 

Mr. Anerley had not succeeded in getting any employment. 
Several times he was offered certain situations, and was on the 
point of accepting, when his son peremptorily forbade any such 
notion. 

“ If you can get proper employment, and proper remunera- 
tion,” said Will, “ well and good ; if not, the pound or two you 
would get would not compensate for the trouble and ignominy of 
such a position.” 

Will’s voice in the matter was powerful, for he was supporting 
the household with such exertions as he was yet permitted to 
make. The old man did not think of trouble or ignominy. He 
thought only of Dove, and the numerous little luxuries to which 
she was accustomed. Nor dared he speak of this, except to his 
wife ; for both saw the perpetual endeavors that Will was mak- 
ing for all of them. Sometimes the old man distrusted the au- 
dacious cheerfulness with which Will insisted on his mother and 
Dove having this or that particular luxury ; and once he made a 
discovery that led him to think retrospectively of many things. 

Down in St. Mary -Kirby there was no home entertainment 
which afforded Dove so much pleasure as having red mullet and 
Champagne for supper ; and the disgraceful little epicure picked 
so daintily her tiny morsel of fish, and sipped so quaintly, with 


272 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


coquettish eyes thrown at her father, her glass of wine, that to 
the other people the feast was much more aesthetic than sensuous. 

“ Mother,” said Will, one evening, when he came home (but 
his words were directed to Dove), “ we haven’t had red mullet 
for supper for a long time. I’ve brought home some ; and I’ve 
brought home a small case of Champagne for the especial use of 
people who behave themselves.” 

“ Oh, Will !” said the mother, “ what extravagance 1” 

“ The boy’s mad !” said the father. 

“ Do you hear them, Dove ? Now they have misconducted 
themselves, you and I shall have all the Champagne to ourselves.” 

What a merry little party it was, that evening ! The landlord 
of the house lent them the proper wineglasses ; Dove went and 
put on part of the blue pearl head-dress the count had given her, 
to make believe she had been at the theatre ; and when they sat 
down at the bright white cloth, with everything on the table as 
brilliant and clean as fingers could make it, it was quite like old 
times. 

“ Now, Will,” said Mr. Anerley, “ let’s see what you’ve brought. 
Mind you, my taste isn’t dulled by want of exercise.” 

“I didn’t consider your taste a bit, sir. I got the wine for 
Dove, and it is as sweet as — ” 

“ Herself ! These young people are too bashful to pay com- 
pliments nowadays. Ah, Dove, don’t these bits of blue paper 
hold wonders within them — the treasures of the deep — the only 
fish worth calling a fish — and every one of them with a diamond- 
ring in its mouth ? Here, Will, give me your ring, that I may 
see how it looks on the nose of this famous fellow which I mean 
to give to Dove.” 

The young man darted a hasty, deprecating look towards his 
father, and the blood rushed over his face. The father caught 
that swift look, and glanced at the finger on which Will general- 
ly wore this ring — one he had brought from Turkey. There was 
no ring there ; it had been there that morning. 

Mr. Anerley did not enjoy the supper. Sometimes the fish 
seemed to stick in his throat, and the wine had a bitter flavor. 

But he did not spoil the enjoyment of the others ; and Dove’s 
delight at recalling one of the old by-gone evenings was immense. 
She persisted in making believe that they had been to the theatre, 
and criticised the actors gravely and severely. She pecked at her 


ANOTHER BLUNDER. 


273 


little piece of fish like a thrush at a ripe white cherry ; and she 
wore on her pretty, small, blue-veined wrist a wonderful bracelet 
that Will had brought her from abroad. 

“Shall I kiss the goblet for you, Sir Knight?” she said, taking 
a little sip out of Will’s glass. 

“And yours, venerable sir?” 

“ It seems to me,” said Mr. Anerley, “ that the old custom was 
a system of levying blackmail on all the wineglasses round. 
Still, I will pay the price. * * * Well, now, it isn’t bad wine ; 
but the bouquet is clearly owing to you, Dove.” 

“ I didn’t like the lover to-night,” said Dove, critically. “ He 
seemed as if his clothes were quite new. I can’t bear a lover 
coming with new clothes, and trying to make an effect. A lover 
should forget his tailor when he is in love. And I am against 
people being married in new clothes, with bride’ smaids in new 
clothes, and everybody in new clothes, and everybody feeling 
cramped, and stiff, and embarrassed. When I marry, I shall have 
my husband wear the old, old suit in which I used to see him 
come home from his work, the clothes which I’ve got to love 
about as much as himself. I sha’n’t have the tailor come be- 
tween him and me.” 

“ The heroine was rather pretty,” hazarded Will, concerning 
the imaginary play. 

“Well, yes. But she made love to us, and not to him. And 
I can’t bear kissing on the stage — before such a lot of people : 
why don’t they do all that before they come on the stage, and 
then appear as engaged or married?” 

“ But you would have to employ a chorus to come and explain 
to the audience what was going on in the 1 wings,’ ” said Will. 

And so they chatted, and gossiped, and laughed, and it seemed 
as if they were again down in the old and happy Kentish valley. 

When they had retired for the night, Mr. Anerley told his 
wife his suspicions about the ring. 

“I was afraid he had done something like that,” she said. 
“But who could regret it, seeing Dove so delighted? I hope he 
won’t do it again, however. I should tell him of it, but that I 
know he will be vexed if we mention it.” 

By common consent the case of Champagne was relegated to 
the grand occasions of the future. The family was not in a po- 
sition to pay a wine-merchant’s bill ; and so they remained con- 

12 * 


274 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


tented with the knowledge that on any sudden prompting they 
had it in their power to become extravagant and luxurious. 

Then Dove was better, so far as they could see ; and they bore 
their little hardships with wonderful equanimity. She was bet- 
ter, doubtless, but she was very delicate ; and the doctor had had 
a long and serious conversation with Mr. Anerley, in which he 
was advised to take Dove to spend the rest of the winter in Italy. 
Sirius was quite as possible a destination. 

By this time Annie Brunei had become familiar with the Hub- 
bard family, and had definitely entered upon her new duties. 
The longer she stayed in the house, the more she was puzzled by 
the consideration with which every one, except her pupils, treat- 
ed her ; and even they were impertinent not through intention, 
but by habit. Mrs. Hubbard was almost obtrusively affectionate 
towards her governess. Everything was done to make her resi- 
dence in the house agreeable. She lunched and dined with Mrs. 
Hubbard, so that poor Miss Betham’s sherry was never called 
into requisition. When there was a dinner-party or a dance 
in the house, Annie Brunei was invited as a guest, introduced to 
visitors as a guest, treated with all the courtesy due to a guest. 
She was never asked to sing by the Hubbards; although she 
played and sung enough at the solicitation of other people. The 
children were taught to consider her, not as a governess, but as a 
friend of their mamma’s. When there were people at the house, 
they were obliged to treat her as a gracious and distinguished 
lady who had come to spend the evening, not as a poor governess 
expected to find correct accompaniments for people who gratui- 
tously changed the key three or four times in the course of a 
song. 

As a governess, she ought to have been very grateful for such 
treatment. Yet she felt far from happy or contented. She did 
not like the pale, round-shouldered, nervous man who never look- 
ed one in the face. Despite the gratitude she could not but feel 
towards Mrs. Hubbard, she did not admire or love much that 
lady, whose unnecessary mendacity she had once or twice discov- 
ered. Here, however, was a home. Outside, the cold elements, 
the chiller hearts of strangers, the vicissitudes, trials, struggles, 
martyrdom of a fight for life ; inside, warmth and comfort, ap- 
parently true friends, and easy duties. She tried to be grateful 
for all these things ; and when moods of lonely despair and mel- 


ANOTHER BLUNDER. 


275 


ancholy overwhelmed her, she upbraided her own weakness, and 
resolved to be more thankful in the future. 

The count had not ventured to go near her. He was satisfied 
to know that she was in safe-keeping. He could bide his time. 
He had made one blunder ; he would not again commit the mis- 
take of forcing marital concerns upon her while she was moved 
by grief for the loss of an old friend. He allowed the slow-pass- 
ing days and weeks to work for him, trusting that in time he 
would only have to step in and reap the rich harvest his pru- 
dence had prepared. 

But he called frequently at the office of his brother, to receive 
reports. And the tone of the count, on one or two occasions, 
was sufficient to stir up a mild remonstrance from even that pa- 
tient and much-enduring person. 

“You talk to me as if you had paid me to engage her and 
keep her in the house for you.” 

“Did you engage her for yourself? You know I suggested 
the thing to you ; and am prepared to reimburse you for any 
extra expense you may have been put to.” 

“ I declare,” said the milder brother, “ you talk as if you were 
fattening a pig, and I was watching the yard. You come and 
look over the palings, and gloat over your future satisfaction, and 
compliment me if the prospect is pleasing to you. Mind you, I 
don’t think you have any supreme claim on the girl.” 

“ Have you 

“ Certainly not.” 

“Well, what’s the use of talking nonsense, Jack? If I marry 
her, it will be as good for you as for me.” 

“ How ?” said the lawyer, coldly, and with affected carelessness. 

“ Well,” replied the count, with some embarrassment, “ there’s 
the money, you see, coming into the family. That’s a great 
matter.” 

“ Yes, to you ,” said John Hubbard. 

The count looked at him for a moment; perhaps a thought 
struck him just then that, after all, his brother might be sincere 
in his view of the matter, and might testify his sincerity by carry- 
ing off the prize for himself. 

“Gad, he can’t do that very well,” said the count to himself, 
with a merry laugh, when he came to reflect on the conversation, 
“ or what would Jane say ? The girl is useless to him, so what’s 


276 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


the use of his talking nonsense? Her money is safe from him, 
if safe from anybody.” 

But the more the count thought over the affair, the less did 
he like the tone that his brother had lately assumed in talking of 
Annie Brunei. Further, he would have been as well pleased had 
he known that Miss Brunei was not quite so comfortable in his 
brother’s house. 

These things were the subject of much conjecture and calcu- 
lation on his part. They were also the theme of his after-dinner 
musings. Now, after-dinner dreams and resolves are very beauti- 
ful at times ; but they should never be put down on paper. In an 
evil hour — it was one evening after he had dined, all by himself, 
in that great house down in Kent — he placed the following words 
in a letter to his brother : 

“ Balnacluith House, near St. Mary-Kirby, 
“January 17th, 18 — . 

“Dear John, — Let me add a word to what I recently said 
about Miss Brunei. It is your interest to forward my interest, 
as you will discover. Now, I am afraid you are treating her with 
so much mistaken kindness that she will get to consider the 
position of governess pleasant. This is misleading her. She 
will only suffer for it afterward. Nothing like wholesome severi- 
ty at the time — nothing. Hubert Anerley came to me and asked 
me to lend him some money, and let him off a bargain about my 
brougham and a pair of horses. Did I ? I knew it would only 
delude him with absurd hopes, and I said no ; and so he ac- 
cepted his fate, and I suppose has set about repairing a fortune 
lost by his own carelessness. That’s my way, Jack ; and you’re 
too kind to the girl. Get Jane to try some wholesome severity 
— to teach her what a governess is ; frighten her — threaten to 
turn her out without a character, or something of the sort. Any- 
thing, so she is made to understand how insecure her position is. 
You understand ? Then I step in, and our family becomes one 
of the richest in England. What do you say to that ? Do it at 
once — and firmly. It will be better to be done decisively — very 
decisively — and soon. Your affectionate brother, 

“ Fred. V. Schonstein.” 

Frederick Yon Schonstein should have seen his brother’s face 
when that letter arrived. It was not an expressive face ; but on 


ANOTHER BLUNDER. 


277 


this occasion there were several emotions clearly visible in it, and 
they were not of a mournful kind. Indeed, John Hubbard 
looked upon this letter as worth thousands of pounds to him. 
It was the key of the position. He showed it to his wife. 

“ What a brute,” she said, “ to think of harming the poor 
girl ! I have never liked your brother, my dear, since he began 
to try to entrap this girl, but now I am beginning to hate him.” 

And doubtless Mrs. Hubbard imagined, quite honestly, that it 
was merely compassion for her charming and unprotected gov- 
erness which provoked her mild wrath and contempt. 

“Fred’s a fool, my dear, or he wouldn’t have written that 
letter.” 

“Why?” 

“ Don’t you see ?” observed the husband, proud of his superior 
masculine perspicacity ; “ whenever he seeks to interfere with her, 
or with our relations towards her, we have only to show her this 
letter, and I think that will considerably cook his goose.” 

It was not often that the meek and proper brother of the 
count was tempted into slang; but on this great occasion, when 
a lucky chance had delivered everything into his hands, he could 
-not forbear. 

Count Schonstein never waited for that course of severity 
which was to render Annie Brunei an easy capture. His solitary 
life at Balnacluith House was becoming more and more unbear- 
able ; and so, at length, he resolved to precipitate matters. 

One forenoon, when he knew his brother would be out, he 
went up to Haverstock Hill. His sister-in-law was a little 
frightened by his appearance. She so far knew her own nature 
as to be aware that the count had only to command and she 
would obey. How she wished that her husband were at home ! 

The count was gracious, but firm. He begged her to grant 
him an interview with Miss Brunei, in tones which expressed his 
resolution to obtain the interview, whether his gentle sister-in-law 
agreed or not. For a moment a lie hovered on her lips; but 
probably she knew it would be of no avail, and so she only vent- 
ured on a remonstrance. 

“ If you do this now,” said Mrs. John, “ you will terrify her. 
She is not prepared. She does not know you are connected with 
us — ” 

“ I can explain all these matters,” said the count, peremptorily. 


278 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Very well,” said his sister-in-law, meekly. 

In a minute afterward Annie Brunei entered the room. No 
sooner did she see who the visitor was, than a surprised, pleased 
light came into her eyes, and the heart of the count leaped for 
joy. How beautiful she was to him then ! The big bright eyes, 
the delicately rounded chin, the pretty mouth, the fine Southern 
languor and grace and softness of her face and figure — and the 
cold, cheerless, empty desolation of Balnacluith House ! 

She shook hands with him. 

“ How did you discover me here ?” 

“Don’t you know?” he asked. “Don’t you know that Mrs. 
Hubbard is my sister-in-law — that her husband is my brother : 
have they never spoken of me?” 

In an instant the whole thing was laid bare to her. She un- 
derstood now the extraordinary courtesy of her mistress ; she un- 
derstood now the references made by the children to the deer 
that their uncle Frederick kept ; and the advertisement — she saw 
that that was a trap. The discovery shocked her a little, but it 
also nerved her. She knew she had been deceived ; she was yet 
unaware of any purpose that the deception could serve ; but she 
confronted the count with an intrepid spirit, and looked him in 
the face. 

That look terrified him. “ Have I,” he thought, “ made an- 
other blunder ?” 

The next moment found him entering on a long series of ex- 
planations, entreaties, and superfluous assertions. It had all been 
done honestly. They were afraid she would be homeless. They 
had advertised out of friendly intention — in perfect good faith. 
He had refrained from visiting the house, lest she should consider 
herself persecuted. The Hubbards had not mentioned his name, 
fearing that even that might frighten her. 

For a minute or two these rapid revelations and confessions 
somewhat confused her. But out of the blundering representa- 
tions of the count arose certain facts strong and clear as the day- 
light. 

“ That advertisement was a trap ?” she said, fixing her large 
honest eyes upon him. 

“ But, you see — ” 

“ And they have been treating me kindly, and deceiving me at 
the same time, that you might come — ?” 


ANOTHER BLUNDER. 


279 


“ Don’t say that,” said the count, deprecatingly. “ They de- 
ceived you with the best intentions towards yourself. And have 
I not the same intentions ? Look at your position — a governess, 
dependent on other people for your bread, liable to be out of a 
situation and starving at any moment, bound down to certain du- 
ties every day, and living a solitary, monotonous life. Then look 
at what you would be if you would only listen to me ; you would 
have nothing to do but enjoy yourself from January to Decem- 
ber — you would have everything at your command — ” 

“ I think I have heard quite enough, Count Schonstein,” she 
said, firmly. “And you would have spared both of ns some pain 
if you had taken the answer I gave you before.” 

“ And that is your only answer ?” 

“ It is.” 

“How can you be so cruel — so unreasonable? What do you 
mean to do?” 

“ I mean to leave this house.” 

“ Why ?” he said, struck with astonishment. 

“ You need not ask me why. You have been a good friend to 
me, and I do not wish to part from you in anger. You have 
been kind to me. I am sorry it is impossible for me to ask you 
to see me again. I do not wish to see you again, or Mr. or Mrs. 
Hubbard, after what you have just told me.” 

She left the room, and the count sat staring blindly before him, 
remotely conscious that something terrible had befallen him. 
The next thing he saw was Annie Brunei entering the drawing- 
room, followed by Mrs. John. The younger lady was dressed in 
black, and had now her bonnet and shawl on. 

“Dear me!” said Mrs. Hubbard. “You astonish me. De- 
ceive you ? Never such a thought entered my head. And as for 
that advertisement, it was no trap at all, but addressed to all gov- 
ernesses. Of course we knew that you might see it, and we were 
very glad when you did see it ; but that we intentionally deceived 
you, I appeal to Count Schonstein, Miss Brunei.” 

“ What I know of these matters, Mrs. Hubbard, I have just 
learned from Count Schonstein,” she said, coldly. “ I don’t ac- 
cuse any one. Perhaps you did nothing unusual. I don’t know 
anything about the customs among ladies. I have been brought 
up among another kind of people. Good-morning.” 

There was no resentment on the calm and beautiful face, nor 


280 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


the least touch of sarcasm in the low, soft voice. There was sad' 
ness, however — a resigned, patient sadness, that smote the heart 
of both her auditors, and kept them silent there, while she went 
outside — into London, alone. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

AN OLD ADMIRER. 

Nelly Featherstone was busy that night. The small room 
in which she sat working was littered with all sorts of beautiful 
dress-making materials ; and Nelly herself was diligently engaged 
— sewing heavy golden fringe upon a resplendent Venetian doub- 
let of green satin, which had glimmerings of white and crimson 
silk across the chest, and white-satin sleeves, tightened and crisp- 
ed with gold. Indeed, the sheen of satin and glitter of gold lay 
all over the dingy little room. These were the raw material of 
the new grand burlesque ; and Nelly, who made all her dresses 
herself, was famous for the historical accuracy of her costume. 
On this occasion, however, there was a green-satin Glengarry ly- 
ing on a chair, and green -satin boots, with the heels not much 
bigger than a fourpenny-piece, on the table ; and she wore on her 
fingers, to try their lustre, two large rings of cut-glass — the one a 
shining emerald, the other a brilliant crimson. 

When Annie Brunei tapped at the door and stepped in, Nelly 
threw all these things aside, and rushed to her old friend, and 
hugged and kissed her in her usual impulsive manner, with a 
dozen “my dears” to every sentence. Her friend’s story was 
soon told ; she wanted Nelly to help her to get some cheap lodg- 
ings in the neighborhood. 

“ And so you know where to come first when you’re down in 
your luck,” said the girl, giving her another kiss, with the tears 
coming into her eyes, for Nelly’s well-worn heart had still a true 
and tender throb in it. “ So sit you down and take everything 
off your mind, and share my room to-night, and to-morrow we’ll 
see about business. Give me your bonnet — there now. Poor 
dear mother Christmas ! — and I’ll give you something to do until 
supper-time comes, and then we shall have a bit of cold mutton 


AN OLD ADMIRER. 


281 


and bottled stout. Ob, I’ve bad my trials, too, my dear, since I 
saw you !” 

“ Wbat’s been tbe matter with you, Nelly ? That young gen- 
tleman, I suppose — ” 

“ Oh yes, he’s always at it. But, thank Goodness, I’ve got rid 
of him at last !” 

“ Quite sure ?” said the other, with a smile. 

“ Oh, quite. Such a fearful row we had, my dear. First about 
lip-salve ; he accused me of using that to make my lips red, when, 
I declare, I haven’t used it for two years. Very well ; just as we 
had made that up, you know, dear, we were walking along Ox- 
ford Street, and there was a match-boy amusing himself, opposite 
a public-house, with a lot of other boys, and he was dancing a 
very, very clever breakdown step, and I said I’d give my ears if I 
could do that — just in fun, you know; and, lor, the passion he 
got into ! Stormed about my low tastes, abused the British 
drama, said I had no more sentiment than a clown ; and then I 
ordered him off, and walked home by myself.” 

“ And which of you was the more miserable, Nelly ?” 

“ I miserable ? Not I ! That very night Mr. Helstone sent me 
the most beautiful little speech about politics and other stuff, and 
Mr. Melton says I may use it in my part.” 

“ You’ll break that young gentleman’s heart, Nelly. Indeed, it 
is a shame — ” 

“ Nonsense ! But I’ll have my revenge upon him this time 
for his quarrelling with me. You see this is a boy’s dress. I’ve 
made the skirt of it two inches shorter than I should have done — 
there ! And I shall be in tights ; and dance a breakdown ; and 
sing a music-hall song ; and when the lime-light comes on at the 
end, I'll stare into it as hard as ever I can." 

“ But why should you injure your eyes ?” 

“ To provoke him — he will be there. And he hates to see me 
in a boy’s dress ; and he hates to see me dance — ” 

“ But I thought you were never to see him again.” 

“ Neither I shall. Never !” 

Miss Featherstone’s landlady tapped at the door, and entered 
with a letter. 

“ Please, miss, he says he’s sorry to trouble you, but is there 
an answer ?” 

Nelly hurriedly ran over the letter, and there was a wicked 
smile of triumph on her face. 


282 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“It’s him!” she said to her companion. “Would you like to 
see him ? Shall I ask him to come up, since you are here ?” 

“ By all means.” 

“ Mrs. Goddridge, tell him I have a friend with me, and he 
may come up, if he likes.” 

Blushing, embarrassed, delighted, shamefaced, and yet radiant 
with joy, Mr. Frank Glyn was introduced to Annie Brunei. He 
was a good-looking, slightly - built young fellow, with a sensi- 
tive cast of face, pleasant large blue eyes, and a certain tender- 
ness about the lines of the mouth which boded ill for his future 
reminiscences of his acquaintance with Miss Nelly Featherstone. 
That young person should have been flirted with by a man of 
stronger mettle than Frank Glyn. 

“ I hope I am not disturbing you,” he said, nervously, looking 
at the table. 

“ I hope you are in a better temper than when I last saw you,” 
said she. 

“We may let by-gones be by-gones now, Nelly. It wouldn’t 
do to fight before Miss Brunei. She might have a strange im- 
pression of us.” 

“I think you are two foolish children,” said Annie Brunei, 
“ who don’t spend a peaceable life when you might.” 

“ I say so, too,” said Nelly. “ Life is not so long, as I have 
told him, that we can afford to throw it away in quarrels. And 
yet he will quarrel. Confess that you always do quarrel, Frank. 
There is only one person in the world who is always good to me ; 
and I do so love him ! When the dear old gentleman who made 
me these boots brought them home, and when I looked at them, 
I could have thrown my arms round his neck.” 

“ I dare say you could, without looking at the boots,” said her 
lover, with a fierce and terrible sneer. 

“ I suppose it’s a weakness,” said Nelly, with philosophic equa- 
nimity, “ but I confess that I love a pair of beautiful little, bright, 
neat, soft, close-fitting boots better than any man I ever saw.” 

She caught up that charming little pair of gleaming boots, and 
pressed them to her bosom, and folded her hands over them, and 
then took them and kissed them affectionately before placing 
them again on the table. 

An awful thunder-cloud dwelt on poor Frank’s brow. 

“ I shall take them to bed with me,” said the young lady, with 


AN OLD ADMIRER. 


283 


loving eyes still on the small heels and the green satin ; “ and I’ll 
-put them underneath my pillow, and dream of them all the night 
through.” 

Mr. Glyn got up. There was a terrible look in his eyes, and a 
terrible cold harshness in his voice, as he said : 

“ I am interrupting your work and your conversation, ladies. 
Good-night, Miss Brunei ; good-bye, Miss Feather stone.” 

With which he shook hands and departed — to spend the rest 
of the evening in walking recklessly along dark suburban roads, 
wondering whether a few drops of prussic acid might not be his 
gentlest and truest friend. 

First love had been awakened in Frank Glyn’s heart by the un- 
lucky instrumentality of Miss Featherstone. Delighted with this 
new and beautiful idealism, he was eager to repay her with an ex- 
travagant gratitude for what, after all, was only his own gift to 
himself. Nelly knew nothing of this occult psychical problem ; 
but was aware of the extravagant gratitude, and conducted herself 
towards it and him with such results as do not concern this pres- 
ent history. 

“ You are very hard upon the poor boy,” said Annie Brunei. 

Nelly pouted prettily, as if she had been ten years younger 
than she was, and said he had no business to be so quick-tem- 
pered. But after supper, when they were retiring for the night, 
and she had grown confidential, she confessed she was very fond 
of him, and hoped he would come again and “ make it up.” 

“ I can’t help quarrelling with him, and he can’t help quarrel- 
ling with me ; and so we’ll go on, and on, and on — ” 

“ Until you marry.” 

“ No, until I marry somebody else, for the sake of peace and 
quiet. And yet I declare if he were to come boldly up to-mor- 
row and insist on my marrying him, I’d do it at once. But he is 
always too sensitive and respectful, and I can’t help teasing him. 
Why doesn’t he make me do what he wants ? He’s a man, and I’m 
a woman ; and yet I never feel as if he were stronger than I was 
— as if I ought to look to him for strength, and advice, and what 
not. He’s too much of a girl in his delicate, frightened ways.” 

Next morning Nelly got a messenger and sent him up to Mr. 
John Hubbard’s for Annie Brunei’s boxes, which had been left 
packed up : then they two went out to inspect some lodgings which 
had been recommended to them by Miss Featherstone’s landlady. 


284 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


The house was a dingy building in Howland Street, Tottenham 
Court Road ; but the rent of the two rooms was small, and Miss 
Brunei engaged them. She had very little money now in her 
purse. Mrs. Hubbard and she had been on so peculiar terms that 
both refrained from talking about salary ; and when the boxes 
were brought down to Nelly’s place by the messenger, no com- 
munication of any kind accompanied them. 

“ If they want to see me, Nelly,” said Annie Brunei, “ they 
will send to your house, thinking that my address. But I don’t 
want my address to be given them, mind, on any consideration.” 

“ But how are you to live, my dear?” 

“ I must find out, like other people,” she said, with a smile. 

“ Won’t your Anerley friends help you?” 

“ What help could I take from them ? Besides, they are worse 
ofi than myself ; and that pretty girl of theirs, about whom I have 
so often spoken to you, is very poorly, and wants to be taken out 
of London. I should rather like to help them than think of their 
helping me.” 

“ Won’t you come back to the stage, then?” 

“Not until I’m starving.” 

The rehearsals for the new burlesque began, and a farce was 
put on in which Nelly played ; so that, for several days, she was 
so busy from morning till night that she never had time to run 
up to see her friend in these poor Howland Street lodgings. So 
Annie Brunei was left alone. The Anerleys had not her address ; 
the Hubbards she was only too anxious to avoid ; Mrs. Christmas, 
her old companion, was gone ; and around her were thousands of 
her fellow -creatures all struggling to get that bit of bread and 
that glass of water which were necessary to her existence. 

The landlady and her husband treated her with great respect, 
because, when asked for a month’s rent in advance, she at once 
gave them the two sovereigns demanded. There remained to 
her, in available money, about twenty-four shillings, which is not 
a great sum wherewith to support a person looking out for a 
situation in London. 

In about a week’s time Nelly Featherstone called. After the 
usual osculation and “ my dearing,” Nelly assumed a serious air, 
and said that it wouldn’t do. 

“You’re looking remarkably ill, and you’ll be worse if you sit 
moping here, and doing nothing. You must be a descendant 


AN OLD ADMIRER. 


285 


of Don Quixote. Why not come down to the theatre, see Mr. 
Melton, and get an engagement ?” 

“ I can’t do it, Nelly.” 

“You mean you won’t. Then, at all events, you’ll spend to- 
day as a holiday. The rehearsals are all over. I shall send for 
Frank, and he will take us into the country.” 

“ For shame ! — to drive that poor fellow mad, and then call 
him back whenever you want a service from him !” 

“ It will give him far more delight than it will us.” 

“No, Nelly; I have no heart to go anywhere. If you have 
promised to meet your Frank, as I imagine, you ought to go off 
by yourself at once.” 

“ I’m not going to do anything of the kind. Tell me what 
you mean to do if you remain in the house.” 

“ See if there are any more letters I can write, and watch the 
postman as he comes round from Tottenham Court Road.” 

“Then you can’t go on doing that forever. Put on your 
bonnet, and let us have a walk down Regent Street, and then 
come and have dinner with me, and spend the afternoon with me, 
until I go to the theatre.” 

This she was ultimately persuaded to do. Nelly did her ut- 
most to keep her friend in good spirits, and altogether the day 
was passed pleasantly enough. 

But the reaction came when Nelly had to go down to the 
theatre alone. 

“ You look so very wretched and miserable,” said she to Annie. 
“ I can’t bear the idea of your going home to that dull room. 
And what nonsense it is not to have a fire because you can’t 
afford it ! Come you down to the theatre ; Mr. Melton will give 
you a stage-box all to yourself ; then you’ll go home with me to- 
night, and stay with me.” 

She would not do that. She went home to the cold, dark 
room — she lighted only one candle, for economy’s sake — and she 
asked if there were any letters. There were none. 

She had only a few shillings left now. She abhorred the idea 
of getting into debt with her landlady ; but that, or starvation, lay 
clearly before her. And as she sat and pondered over her fut- 
ure, she wondered whether her mother had ever been in the like 
straits — whether she, too, had ever been alone, with scarcely a 
friend in the world. She thought of the count, too. 


286 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“If the beggar would marry the king, and exchange her rags 
for silk attire,” she said to herself, bitterly, “ now would be the 
time.” 

By the nine-o’clock post no letter came ; hut a few minutes 
after the postman had passed, the landlord came up to the door 
of her room. 

“ A letter, please, miss — left by a boy.” 

Hoping against hope, she opened it as soon as the man had 
left. Something tumbled out and fell on the floor. On the 
page before her she saw inscribed, in a large, coarse, masculine 
handwriting, these words : 

u An old admirer begs the liberty to send the enclosed to Miss 
Brunei , with love and affection .” 

But in that assumed handwriting Nelly Featherstone’s e’s and 
j*’s were plainly legible. The recipient of the letter picked up 
the folded paper that had fallen. It was a five-pound note. 

“ Poor Nelly !” she said, with a sort of nervous smile; and then 
her head fell on her hands, which were on the table, and she 
burst into tears over the scrawled bit of paper. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

POSSESSION. 

Mr. Joseph Cayley, Jr., sat in his private room in the office 
of Cayley & Hubbard. He was an unusually tall man, with a 
thin, cold, hard face, black eyes, black hair, and an expression of 
extraordinary solemnity. He looked as if none of his ancestors 
had ever laughed. A shrewd and clear-headed man of business, 
he was remarkable at once for his upright conduct of profession- 
al affairs, and for the uncompromising frankness, with the extreme 
courtesy, of his personal demeanor. His friends used to wonder 
how such a man and John Hubbard ever pulled together; but 
they did, and their business was even better now than when old 
Mr. Cayley took John Hubbard into partnership. 

A card was handed to Mr. Cayley by one of the youths in the 
office. He glanced at the card, looked at it attentively, and then 
there came over his face a singular expression of concern, surprise, 
and almost fear. 


POSSESSION. 


287 


“ Show her in,” he said, sharply, to the lad. 

He rose and paced up and down the room for a moment; 
then he found himself bowing into a chair a lady completely 
dressed in black, who had just entered. 

“ Will you permit me,” he said, fixing his big black eyes upon 
her, “ to ask my partner to join us ? I anticipate the object of 
your visit, and — and — ” 

“ Does your partner live at Haverstock Hill ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I would rather speak with you alone, then,” said the young 
lady, calmly. “I have here a letter from my mother, Mrs. 
Brunei, to you. I need not explain to you why the letter has 
not been delivered for years. I was not to deliver it until ne- 
cessity — ” 

“You need not explain,” said Mr. Cayley, hurriedly taking the 
letter. “This is addressed to my father, but I may open it. I 
know its contents; I know everything you wish to know, Miss 
Brunei.” 

When he had opened the letter, he read it, and handed it to 
Annie Brunei, who read these words : 

“ Mr. Cayley, — My daughter claims her rights. 

“Annie, Marchioness of Knottingley.” 

She looked at him, vaguely, wonderingly, and then at the faded 
brown writing again. The words seemed to disappear in a mist : 
then there was a soft sound in her ears, as of her mother’s voice ; 
and then a sort of languor stole over her, and it seemed to her 
that she was falling asleep. 

“Take this glass of wine,” was the next thing she heard. 
“You have been surprised, alarmed, perhaps. But you know 
the handwriting to be your mother’s ?” 

“ Yes,” was the reply, in a low voice. 

“ And you understand now why you were to call upon us ?” 

“ I don’t know — I don’t understand — my mother ought to be 
here now,” said the girl, in hurried, despairing accents. “ If that 
letter means anything, if my mother was a rich lady, why did she 
keep always to the stage ? Why conceal it from me ? And my 
father — where was he, that he allowed her to travel about, and 
work day after day and night after night ?” 


288 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“He was dead.” 

Many and many a time had Joseph Cayley rehearsed this scene 
upon which he had now entered. His earliest initiation into the 
secrets of the office was connected with it. It had been a legacy 
to him from his father ; and the unusual mystery and importance 
of the case had so impressed him, that he used to imagine all the 
circumstances of the young girl’s coming to claim her own, and 
of his speeches and bearing during the interview. He forgot all 
his elaborate speeches, and remembering only the bare facts of 
the case, related them with as great delicacy as he could. Now 
for the first time did Annie Brunei understand the sad circum- 
stances of her mother’s story, and for the moment she lost sight 
of everything else. She was away back in that strange and 
mournful past, recalling her mother’s patient bearing, her heroic 
labor, her more than heroic cheerfulness and self-denial, and the 
bitter loneliness of her last hours. 

“ It was his friends who kept him from her ?” she asked, not 
daring to look up. 

The lawyer knew better ; but he dared not tell the cruel truth 
to the girl. 

“ Doubtless,” he said. “ Your father’s friends were very proud, 
and very much against his marrying an actress.” 

“And my mother feared my going among them?” 

“ Doubtless. But you need not do so now.” 

“ Do they know who I am ?” 

“ Yes, my lady .” 

He uttered the words, not out of compliment, but of set pur- 
pose. It was part of the information he had to give her. She 
looked up to him with a curious look, as if he were some magi- 
cian who had suddenly given her sackfuls of gold, and was about 
to change the gold again into flints. 

“ If all this is true, why did I never hear it from any one else ?” 

“ We alone knew, and your father’s friends. They concealed 
the marriage as well as they could, and certainly never would 
speak to any one about you.” 

“ And all these estates you speak of are mine ?” she said, with 
a bewildered look on her face. 

“Yes.” 

“ And all that money ?” 

“ Certainly.” 


POSSESSION. 


289 


“Without the chance of anybody coming forward and saying 
it is not mine ?” 

“ There is no such chance that I know of, once you have been 
identified as Lady Knottingley’s daughter, and that will not be 
difficult.” 

“And I can do with the money what I like?” she asked, the 
bewilderment turning to a look of joy. 

“ Most undoubtedly.” 

“ Out of such sums as you mention, I could give twenty thou- 
sand pounds to one person, and the same amount to another?” 

“Certainly. But you will forgive my saying that such be- 
quests are not usual ; perhaps you will get the advice of a 
friend.” 

“I have only two friends — a Miss Featherstone, and an old 
gentleman called Mr. Anerley. These are the two I mean.” 

Mr. Cayley opened his eyes with astonishment. 

“Miss Featherstone, of the Theatre ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ You propose to give her twenty thousand pounds?” 

“Yes,” said the young girl, frankly, and with a bright, happy 
look on her face. 

“The imprudence — the indiscretion — if I may say so! (al- 
though it is no business of mine, my lady, and we shall be glad 
to fulfil any of your instructions). What could such a girl do 
with that sum. of money ?” 

“ What shall I do with all the rest — if it is real, which I can 
scarcely believe yet ? But I wish you to tell me truly what was 
my mother’s intention in keeping this secret from me. I was 
only to apply to you in extreme need. No one knows how ex- 
treme my need is — how extreme it was last night, when it drove 
me to take out that letter and resolve to appeal to you.” 

“Your mother told my father why she should keep the secret 
from you. She wished you never to undergo the wrongs she 
had suffered by coming in contact with those people whose in- 
fluence over your father she feared and hated.” 

“And how she used to teach me always to rely upon the 
stage !” she said, musingly, and scarcely addressing herself to the 
man before her. “ Perhaps I have done very wrong in relinquish- 
ing it. Perhaps I am to have as miserable a life as she had ; but 
it will not be through them .” 


13 


290 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Now, my lady, there is no necessity why you should ever see 
one of the family.” 

“And it was her wish that I should come to you when I was 
in extreme distress — ?” 

“ Distress ! I hope not pecuniary — ” 

“ That, and nothing else,” said the girl, calmly. 

Mr. Cayley was only too glad to become her banker until the 
legal arrangements should permit of her stepping into a command 
of money such as Harry Ormond himself had never owned. 

“ And in the mean time,” she added, “ you will not mention to 
any one my having seen you. I do not know what I shall do 
yet. I fear there is something wrong about it all — something 
unreal or dangerous; and when I think of my poor mother’s 
life, I do not wish to do anything in haste. I cannot believe 
that all this money is mine. And the title, too — I should feel as 
if I were on the stage again, and were assuming a part that I 
should have to drop in an hour. I don’t want all that money ; I 
should be afraid of it. If my mother were only here to tell me !” 

Mr. Cayley was called away at this moment to see some other 
visitor. In his absence John Hubbard came to the door of the 
room and looked in. 

He saw before him a figure which he instantly recognized. 
The girl was looking at the sheet of brown paper which bore her 
mother’s name, her eyes were wet, and her hands were clasped to- 
gether, as if in mute supplication to that scrap of writing to say 
something more and guide her in this great emergency. John 
Hubbard guessed the whole situation of affairs directly. With- 
out a moment’s hesitation, he entered, and Annie Brunei looked 
up. 

“ My poor girl !” he said, in accents of deep compassion, with 
his pale face twitching nervously, “ I understand your sad posi- 
tion ; and if you had only remained in our house a few days 
longer, our counsel and advice might have been of service to you 
in this crisis. How deeply you must feel the want of a true and 
faithful adviser!” 

John Hubbard became aware that he had made a mistake. 
All the return that his sympathetic consolation provoked was a 
calm and penetrating look : and then, with a sudden change of 
manner, that surprised and half frightened him, she rose to her 
feet, and said, coldly and proudly, 


POSSESSION. 


291 


“I am here on business; it is Mr. Cayley I wish to see.” 

Bewildered alike by her manner and her speech, Mr. Hubbard 
only blundered the worse. 

“ My lady,” he said, hurriedly, and with profound respect, “you 
will forgive me if I have been too forgetful in offering you my 
sympathy. But as an old friend — our old relations — the pleasant 
evenings — ” 

“ Mr. Hubbard,” she said, in the same tone (and before the 
clear, cold, cruel notes of her voice the walls of his imaginative 
Jericho fell down and crumbled into dust), “ I am much obliged 
to you and your wife for having employed me. I hope I did my 
work in return for the food I received. As to your kindness, 
and the pleasant evenings spent in your house, I have an im- 
pression which I need not put into words. You know I had a 
conversation with your brother before I left your house which 
seemed to explain your kindness to me. At the same time, I am 
as grateful to you as I can be.” 

“ That brother of mine again !” thought John Hubbard, with 
an inward groan. 

Mr. Cayley came into the room, and was surprised to find his 
partner there. 

“ I wish to speak to you in private, sir,” said Miss Brunei to 
Mr. Cayley ; and, thus dismissed, John Hubbard retired, thinking 
of the poor children who had been deprived of handsome little 
presents all through the blundering folly of their uncle. 

“ Hang him !” said John Hubbard ; “ the best thing the fool 
can do is to shoot himself and leave his money to the boys. As 
for her , he has set her dead against me forever. And now she 
will be Lady Annie Knottingley, and my wife might have been 
her best friend, and we might have lived, almost, at that splendid 
place in Berks — and the children — ” 

There was no more miserable creature in London that day 
than the count’s brother ; and he considered himself an injured, 
ill-used, and virtuous man. 

The appearance of John Hubbard had done this one good 
thing — it had determined Annie Brunei to make up her mind. 
It recalled so forcibly the loneliness and misery, the humiliation 
and wretchedness, of these past months, that she instantly resolved 
never, if she could help it, to come into contact with such peo- 
ple again. With this wealth at her command, she was free. She 


292 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


could choose such friends and scenes and pursuits as she liked 
best ; she could — and here the warm heart of her leaped up with 
joy — she could reach out her hand to those friends who might be 
in want ; she could be their secret protector, and glide in like an 
invisible fairy to scare away the wolf from their door by the sun- 
shine of her gilded and luminous presence. This splendid po- 
tentiality she hugged to her heart with a great joy ; and as she 
went away from Mr. Cayley’s office (after a long interview, in 
which he explained to her the legal aspects and requirements of 
the situation) there was a fine, happy light on her face. She no 
longer doubted that it was all real. She already felt the tingling 
of a full hand, and her brain was busy with pictures of all the 
people to whom that hand was to be freely extended. In many 
a romance had she played ; but never a romance like this, in 
which all the world but herself was ignorant of the secret. She 
would go about, like an emperor with a bundle of pardons in his 
pocket — like a kindly spirit who would transform the coals in 
poor men’s grates into lumps of gleaming rubies, and diamonds, 
and emeralds. She would conceal her mysterious power; and 
lo ! the invisible will would go forth, and this or that unhappy 
man or woman — ready to sink in despair before the crushing 
powers of circumstance — would suddenly receive her kindly help, 
and find himself or herself enriched and made comfortable by an 
unknown agency. 

Like every one who has suffered the trials of poverty, she fan- 
cied that nearly all the ills of life were attributable to want of 
money, and she saw in this wealth which had become hers a 
magnificent instrument of amelioration. She had a very con- 
fused notion of Mr. Cayley’s figures. She knew the value of five 
pounds, or twenty, or even a hundred ; but when it came to 
thousands, comprehension failed her. She could not tell the dif- 
ference between a hundred and fifty thousand pounds and the 
same sum per annum ; both quantities were not reducible to the 
imagination, and consequently conveyed no distinct impression. 
She knew vaguely that the money at her command was inex- 
haustible ; she could give each of her friends — certainly she had 
not many — a fortune without affecting (sensibly to herself) this 
accumulation of banker’s ciphers. 

So she walked westward through the crowded city, weaving 
dreams. Habit had so taught her to dread the expense of a cab, 


POSSESSION. 


293 


that she never thought of employing a conveyance, although she 
had in her pocket fifty pounds which Mr. Cayley had pressed 
upon her. She was unaware of the people, the noise, the cold 
January wind, and the dust. Her heart was sick with the de- 
light of these vague imaginings, and the inexpressible joy of her 
anticipations was proof against those physical inconveniences 
which, indeed, she never perceived. 

Yet her joy was troubled. For among all the figures that her 
heart loved to dwell upon, all the persons whom she pictured as 
receiving her munificent and secret kindness, there was one with 
whom she knew not how to deal. What should she give to Will 
Anerley? The whole love of her heart he already possessed; 
could she, even though he were to know nothing of the donor, 
offer him money ? She shrunk from such a suggestion with ap- 
prehensive dislike and repugnance; but yet her love for him 
seemed to ask for something, and that something was not money. 

“ What can I do better than make him marry Dove, and forget 
me?” she said to herself; and she was aware of a pang at her 
heart which all Harry Ormond’s money, and twenty times that, 
could not have removed. 

For a little while the light died away from her face ; but by- 
and-by the old cheerful, resolute spirit returned, and she contin- 
ued her brisk walk through the gray and busy streets. 

“ Mr. Cayley,” she said to herself, talking over her projects as 
a child prattles to its new toys, “ fancies Mr. Anerley had thirty 
or forty thousand pounds. If I send him that, they will all go 
down to Kent again, and Dove will win her lover back to her 
with the old associations. They might well marry then, if Will 
were not as fiercely independent as if he were a Spanish duke. 

I could not send him money ; if he were to discover it, I should 
die of shame. But it might be sent to him indirectly as a pro- 
fessional engagement ; and then — then they would marry, I know 
— and perhaps they might even ask me to the wedding. And I 
should like to go, to see Dove dressed as a bride, and the look on 
her face !” 

Dove did not know at that moment what beautiful and gener- 
ous spirit was scheming with a woman’s wit to secure her welfare 
— what tender projects were blossoming up, like the white flow- 
ers of charity and love, in the midst of the dull and selfish Lon- 
don streets. But when Annie Brunei, having walked still farther 


294 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


westward, entered the house which the Anerleys occupied, and 
when she came into the room, Dove thought she had never seen 
the beautiful dark face look so like the face of an angel. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

ORMOND PLACE. 

A still, cold, beautiful morning in March, the dark crimson 
sun slowly creeping up behind the tall and leafless trees of the 
wood on this Berkshire hill. There is snow everywhere — snow 
on the far uplands, snow on this sloping forest, snow on the 
shelving ground that glides down to the banks of the smooth 
blue waters of the Thames. There is a ruddy glow over that 
wintry waste of white ; for the eastern vapors deaden the light of 
the sun, and redden it, and steep the far horizon in a soft purple 
haze. There is not a breath of wind. The sere and withered 
stems of the tall gray rushes by the river-side are motionless, ex- 
cept when the wild ducks stir in their marshy secrecy, or the wa- 
ter-hens swim out to take a cautious look up and down the stream. 
Here and there, too, the river catches a streak pf crimson and pur- 
ple, as it lies hushed and still in the hushed, still white meadows. 

Back from these meadows lies the long, low hill which slopes 
downward to the east, and loses itself in illimitable woods. Up 
here on its summit is the little village of Steyne — only a church, 
with a square gray tower, a vicarage smothered in dark ivy, and 
two or three cottages. Farther along the great bank you come 
to the woods of Ormond Place; and right in the centre of them, 
in a great clearance visible for miles round, stands, fronting the 
river and the broad valley and the far landscape, the house in 
which Harry Ormond, Marquis of Knottingley, died. 

It is a modern house, large, roomy, and stately, with oval-roofed 
greenhouses breaking the sharp descent of the walls to the 
ground ; a house so tall and well-placed as to overlook the great 
elms in the park, which, on the other side of the broad and 
banked -up lawn, slopes down into the valley. As the red sun 
rises over the purple fog, it catches the pale front of the house, 
and sheds over it a glimmer of gold. The snow gleams cold and 


ORMOND PLACE. 


295 


yellow on the evergreens, on the iron railings of the park, on the 
lawn where it is crossed and recrossed with a net-work of rabbits’ 
footprints. Finally, as the sun masters the eastern vapors, and 
strikes with a wintry radiance on the crimson curtains inside the 
large windows (and they have on this morning a warmer light 
flickering upon them from within), Ormond Place, all white and 
gold, shines like a palace of dreams, raised high and clear over 
that spacious English landscape that lies cold and beautiful along 
the noblest of English rivers. 

There was life and stir in Ormond Place this morning. The 
carriage-drive had been swept ; the principal rooms in the house 
stripped of their chintz coverings ; great fires lighted ; the chil- 
dren of the lodge dressed in their smartest pinafores; the ser- 
vants in new liveries ; harness, horses, carriages, and stables alike 
polished to the last degree. The big fires shone in the grates, 
and threw lengthening splashes of soft crimson on the thick car- 
pets and up the palely decorated walls. The sleeping palace had 
awoke, and the new rush of life tingled in its veins. 

About twelve o’clock in the forenoon the carriage that had 
been sent to Corchester Station returned with two occupants in- 
side. The children at the lodge, drawn up in line, bobbed a 
courtesy as they stared wonderingly at the carriage - window, 
where they saw nothing. A few minutes afterward Annie 
Brunei, pale a little, and dressed entirely and simply in black, 
walked into her father’s house between the servants, who were 
unconsciously trying to learn their future fate in the expression 
of her face. And if they did not read in that face a calm for- 
bearance, a certain sad sympathy and patience, they had less pen- 
etration than servants generally have. 

She entered one of the rooms — a great place with panelled 
pillars in the centre, and a vague vision of crystal and green leaves 
at the farther end — and sat down in one of the chairs near the 
blazing fire. It was not a moment of triumph — it was a moment 
of profound, unutterable sadness. The greatness of the place, the 
strange faces around her, increased the weight of loneliness she 
felt. And then all the reminiscences of her mother’s life were 
present to her, and she seemed to have established a new and 
strange link between herself and her. It seemed as if the great 
chasm of time and circumstance had been bridged over, and that 
in discovering her mother’s house, and the old associations of 


296 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


these by-gone years, she should have discovered her also, and met 
the kindly face she once knew. If Annie Napier had walked into 
the room just then, and laid her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, 
I do not think the girl would have been surprised. 

“ Was my mother ever in this house ?” she asked of Mr. Cayley, 
not noticing that he was still standing with his hat in his hand. 

“Doubtless. She was married in that little church we passed.” 

“And instead of spending her life here in comfort and quiet, 
he let her go away to America, and work hard and bitterly for 
herself and me !” 

Mr. Cayley said nothing. 

“Do you know anything of her life here? How long she 
stayed? What were her favorite rooms? Where she used to 
sit?” 

“ No, your ladyship ; I only presume Lady Knottingley must 
have lived here for a little while before going to Switzerland. 
My father might be able to tell me.” 

“I am very anxious to see him — he is the only person I am 
anxious to see. He knew my mother; perhaps he can tell me 
something about her life here and in Switzerland. She may have 
left some things in the house — a book or a picture — that he might 
tell me was hers ; don’t you think so ?” 

Mr. Cayley, against his knowledge, was forced to admit that it 
was possible, for he saw there were tears in the girl’s eyes. 

“Would you care to go through the house now?” he sug- 
gested. “ Mrs. Tillotson will go with you, and see what arrange- 
ments or alterations you want made. And about your future 
residence here — ” 

“ I cannot stay here,” she said ; “ the place is too big and too 
lonely. I could not bear to live alone in this great place.” 

“Your ladyship need not want for society. Both of the trus- 
tees, Lord Sefton and — ” 

“ I will not see one of them !” she said, with flashing eyes. “ I 
consented to see them, when you said it was necessary — but to 
meet them as friends ! They knew my mother ; they must have 
seen her and known her; and they never tried to help her. 
They were men, and they let a woman be treated like that !” 

The bitter scorn of the words sounded so strangely as it came 
from the gentle face; but there was an indignant flush in her 
cheeks, and indignation in her eyes. 


ORMOND PLACE. 


297 


“ My mother spent years of weary labor, that she might never 
go among these people. With all her love for me, she thought 
it better that I too should work for my living, and run the chances 
of illness, rather than go among them ; and am I to make friends 
with them now? Their condescension is great; but when a 
woman has lived the life that I have, she begins to mistrust peo- 
ple who want to be friends with you only when you become 
fortunate. And why do they want to be friends with me ? They 
will take me into society ? — I don’t wish to go. They will offer 
me their wives and sisters as companions? — I prefer other com- 
panions. I would rather walk out of this house a beggar to- 
morrow morning than pretend to be friends with people whom I 
hate /” 

“Your ladyship is unjust,” said Mr. Cayley. “These gentle- 
men tried to induce your mother to return to England, and ac-^ 
cept that effort at compensation which Lord Knottingley made 
when it was too late. Nor could they show any interest in your 
welfare before now, without revealing that secret which your 
mother had imposed on us all. As well blame me for not seek- 
ing you out before you came to our office. We all of us knew 
who you were ; we were bound to let you make the first over- 
tures yourself.” 

“ Compensation ? You imagine that a woman who had her 
heart broken should have accepted that tardy acknowledgment of 
her rights as a sufficient compensation ?” 

“ It was all Lord Knottingley could then offer,” said the lawyer, 
who stuck manfully to the clear outlines of the case as they lay 
mapped out in his brain, without regard to the distortion pro- 
duced by the generous impulses of love, and pity, and indignation. 
These disturbant influences, in the present case, he could not well 
understand; for he failed to comprehend the powerful caste- 
hatred which the girl had sucked in with her mother’s milk — a 
bitter and illogical prejudice, which neither the tenderness of her 
own nature, nor the provoked arguments of Will, nor the wise 
counsel and example of Mr. Anerley, had in any way tempered. 

Shortly afterward, they went on a tour of inspection through 
the house, accompanied by Mrs. Tillotson, a tall, thin-faced, dark 
woman, with placid, melancholy eyes and a soft voice. The first 
question asked of the housekeeper by her new mistress was 
whether she remembered Lord Knottingley’s wife. But neither 

13 * 


298 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


Mrs. Tillotson nor any one of the servants had been with Lord 
Knottingley at that time. 

“ Except Brooks, my lady, perhaps ; he has been with the fam- 
ily since he was a boy.” 

“ Who is Brooks ?” 

“ The lodge-keeper. Perhaps your ladyship didn’t see him at 
the gate, for he is old, and seldom moves out-of-doors. But 
surely on such a day as this — ” 

“ I saw some children — ” 

“They are his grandchildren — John Brooks’s children; they 
all live in the lodge. But he is sure to present himself during 
the day ; and I hope your ladyship won’t be offended by his — 
his manner — his bluntness of speaking.” 

When they had gone through the house, and the young girl 
had indicated what rooms she should, occupy, they returned down- 
stairs. There was an old man in the hall, his cap in his hand, 
his long white hair falling on the neck of his fine Sunday coat, 
which was considerably too small for him. He regarded Annie 
Brunei with a curious look, and said to her, as she approached, 

“ Pardon, my lady ; I thought I’d come up and see as it were 
all true. And true it is — true it is.” 

“ That is Brooks,” said Mrs. Tillotson. 

The girl bade the old man go into the great drawing-room. 

“You don’t remember me,” he said. “I remember you; but 
as you came down them stairs I’d ’a sworn it wasn’t you. If 
they hadn’t told me you were coming, I should ha’ said it was a 
ghost — the ghost o’ your mother as come down them stairs.” 

“ You remember her?” she said, with an eager, bright look. 

“Ay, and you too. You don’t remember me; but I nearly 
killed you once — when your pony tried to take the upper ’and 
on ye, and I ’it ’im, and afoor I knew where I was — ” 

“ But where did all this happen ?” 

“ Why, in Switzerland, where you and your mother was. I’ve 
good eyes; I can remember. And there’s lots more o’ the old 
folk as might, only they’ve turned ’em all off, and brought in new 
uns, as doesn’t know nothin’ o’ the family or the Place. It was 
your father as said I should live here till I died, and then they 
can turn me out, if they like ; and I came up to see if it was true 
you had come home, and whether you’d want me to go with the 
rest. If you mean it, say it, plump and plain. I’m not afeard 


ORMOND PLACE. 


299 


to go ; I can earn my living as well as younger men I knows on 
about this ’ere very place.” 

“My good man, don’t disquiet yourself. You will never have 
to leave your house through me. But I want you to tell me all 
you know about my mother — everything. Won’t you sit down ? 
And you will have some wine ?” 

Mr. Cayley rung for some wine ; and Annie Brunei herself 
poured some into a glass and gave it to the old man. 

“ I like the wine — and it’s not the first time by forty year as 
I’ve tasted his lordship’s wine — but I can’t abide them big blazing 
fires as melts a man’s marrow.” 

“Come outside, then,” said the girl; “the day is pleasant 
enough out-of-doors.” 

“ Ah, that’s better !” he said ; and his keen, fresh face bright- 
ened up as he stepped outside into the brisk cold air, with the 
brilliant sunshine lying on the crisp snow. 

The two of them walked up and down the long carriage-drive, 
between the tall rows of bleak trees; and as the old man gar- 
rulously gossiped about the past times, and his more or less con- 
fused memories, it seemed to Annie Brunei as though the whole 
scene around her were unreal. The narrowing avenue of trees, 
the heaped-up snow, the broad shafts of sunlight falling across 
the path, the glimpses of the white meadows, and the blue stream, 
and the wintry sunshine hitting on the vane of the village church, 
were all so very like a theatrical “ set while the man beside her, 
whom she had never seen before, seemed to be some strange link 
connecting her with a forgotten and inscrutable past. The as- 
surance that he would not be “ turned off to follow the rest ” had 
softened old Brooks’s usually querulous and pugnacious manner ; 
and in his most genial fashion he recalled and recounted whatever 
stories he could remember of Annie Brunei’s old childhood, and 
of her mother’s happy life on the margin of that Swiss lake. 

He actually gossiped his companion into cheerfulness. Forget- 
ting all about Mr. Cayley, she went with Brooks down to the 
lodge ; and there the old man, intensely proud of the familiarity 
he had already established between himself and her, presented to 
her, with calm airs of superiority, his overawed son and daughter- 
in-law. And the new mistress made herself quite at home ; and 
had two of the children on her knee at once ; and was interested 
in Tom’s pet blackbird ; and expressed her admiration of Jack’s 


300 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


string of blown eggs; and finally invited all the young ones to 
tea, in the housekeeper’s room, that evening at six punctually. 
Another visitor was expected that evening. Much as Annie 
Brunei desired to play the part of a secret and invisible benefactor 
to all her friends, she found that this would cut off from her any 
chance of companionship ; and so, before going down into Berks, 
she had told the story of her altered fortunes to Nelly Feather- 
stone, and begged of that young person to come down and stay 
w T ith her for a time. Nelly burst into tears of joy; was pro- 
foundly conscious of the benefit of having so desirably rich a 
friend; was honestly delighted and prudently speculative at the 
same moment, and accepted the invitation. 

Nelly was a girl of spirit. She knew she would be inspected 
by critical servants, and perhaps by visitors of exalted rank, and 
she resolved not to shame her old friend. She accurately 
sketched beforehand the character she would assume; fixed her 
demeanor; decided the tone she would adopt in speaking to 
Lady Annie Knottingley ; and, finally, bought the current number 
of Punch , and dressed her hair and herself in imitation of one 
of the ladies of that periodical. 

The carriage was sent to meet her at Corchester in the evening. 
The calm dignity with which she treated the servants was admira- 
ble. Nor was her dress less admirable, so far as a faithful copy of 
the Punch lady was concerned, except in point of color. Unfortu- 
nately she had no guide to color, except her own rather whimsical 
taste ; and as several parts of her attire belonged to her dramatic 
wardrobe, she looked like a well-dressed lady seen through a prism. 

When she entered the house, confronted the servants, was in- 
troduced to Mr. Cayley, and quietly went up to kiss Annie Bru- 
nei, her manner was excellent. A woman who makes a living by 
studying the ridiculous, and imitating it, can lay it aside when 
she chooses. Nor was her assumption of womanly dignity and 
reserve less a matter of ease. Nelly Featherstone was clever 
enough to conceal herself from the eyes of a critical London au- 
dience ; surely she was able to impose on a lot of country ser- 
vants, and a lawyer inexperienced in theatrical affairs. 

When she came into the drawing-room before dinner her make- 
up was magnificent. She was a little too gorgeous, certainly ; 
but in these days considerable latitude is allowed in color and 
shape. Miss Brunei was alone. 


ORMOND PLACE. 


301 


“ Why, Nelly,” slie said, “ what was the use of your troubling 
to make yourself so fine ? I must have put you to so much ex- 
pense !” 

“ Well, you have,” said the other. “ But it isn’t every day I 
dine at a grand house.” 

“ And you mustn’t talk to me as if I were a duchess merely 
because Mr. Cayley is present. I have asked him to dine with 
us. You must speak to me as you are speaking now.” 

“ Oh no, my dear, it would never do,” said the practical Nelly, 
with a wise shake of the head. “If you don’t remember who 
you are, I must. You are a fine lady; I am an actress. If you 
ask me to visit you, it is because you wish me to amuse you. But 
when I’m not amusing you, I must be respectful. Mr. Cayley 
knows who I am ; the servants don’t. I can be grand to them ; 
but with him — ” 

“ My absurd girl, why won’t you be yourself ? You don’t need 
to care for Mr. Cayley, or the servants, or any one else. Mr. Cay- 
ley knows I was an actress ; if the servants don’t, they will very 
soon. And you are here merely as my friend, and I am deeply 
indebted to you for coming ; and if Mr. Melton will only refrain 
from changing the pieces for weeks to come, we shall have a 
pleasant romp together down here. By -the -way, did you hear 
some absurd noises a few minutes ago ?” 

“I did.” 

“ That was my first token of popularity. I had the lodge-keep- 
er’s children up here to tea ; and as they all got a lump of cake 
when they went away, they collected round the door outside and 
cheered. I think they call that intimidation and bribery — buy- 
ing the popular vote, or something of the kind.” 

During dinner an obvious battle was being waged between Nel- 
ly and the butler. But the official and cumbrous dignity of the 
one was no match for the splendid and haughty languor of Nel- 
ly’s eyes, and the indolent indifference of her manner and tone. 
Somehow the notice of the servants was chiefly drawn to Miss 
Featherstone ; but she decidedly managed to conquer them, and 
that in a style which puzzled and amused her friend at the head 
of the table. Nor would Nelly permit the least familiarity of 
approach on the part of her hostess. And as it would have been 
preposterous to have chatted confidentially with a person who re- 
turned these advances with a marked deference and respect, “ my 


302 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


lady ” fell into her friend’s whim, and the conversation at dinner 
was consequently somewhat peculiar. 

When the two women were left alone, however, Annie Brunei 
strongly remonstrated. But Nelly was firm : 

“ If you don’t know who you are, I do.” 

Drawing two low easy-chairs in towards the fire, they sat down 
and entered into mutual confidences. The one had much to tell 
— the other much to suggest ; and never had two children more 
delight in planning what they would do if they were emperors, 
than had these two girls in concocting plots for the benefit of 
all the persons they knew, and a great many more. 

Miss Brunei took a note from her pocket, and gave it to her 
companion to read. 

“ In strict confidence,” she added. 

These were the words Nelly saw : “ A friend , who has urgent 
reasons for remaining unknown , has placed to the credit of Mr. 
Hubert Anerley , at the London and Westminster Bank , the sum of 
thirty thousand pounds. Mr. Anerley is asked to accept this money 
as a free and frankly offered gift , to be used on behalf of himself and 
his family. A bank-note of one hundred pounds is enclosed , to 
satisfy Mr. Anerley that this communication is made in good faith.” 

“Thirty thousand pounds!” said Nelly, in an awed whisper. 
“ I have often thought of some one sending me a lot of money — 
thousands, millions of money — but I think if any one were actu- 
ally to send me a hundred pounds, I should die of surprise first 
and joy afterward.” 

“The money has already been placed to his account at the 
bank; and this note will be sent to him to-morrow, when Mr. 
Cayley returns to town. How I should like to send old White, 
the prompter, a hundred pounds — the poor old man who has that 
dreadful wife!” 

“ Don’t do anything of the kind, my dear,” said Nelly, sagely. 
“ He would starve his wife worse than ever, because he wouldn’t 
earn a penny until he had drunk every farthing of the money 
you sent him.” 

“ Perhaps you will forbid my giving you anything ?” 

“ Certainly not ; I should be glad of a cup of tea or coffee.” 

“ Which ?” 

“ I like coffee best, but I prefer tea,” said Nelly, with grave 
impartiality. 


ORMOND PLACE. 


303 


Tea and coffee having been procured, they continued their 
talk. 

“ You went to my lodgings ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And secured them for an indefinite time ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And all my clothes and things are as I left them ?” 

“Yes — that is, as far as I could look over them. Mr. Glyn 
was with me.” 

“ Oh, he has forgiven you again ?” 

“ Certainly not,” said Nelly, with a touch of indignation. “He 
has not forgiven me, for I never provoked a quarrel with him in 
my life. He has come to his senses, that is all ; and he is no 
sooner come to them than he is off again. But this is the final 
blow ; he will never get over this.” 

“This what ?” 

“ My disappearance from London without telling him. I go 
back. He comes to see me; is surprised, offended; wants me 
to be penitent for having annoyed him by my silence. Of course 
I am not. Then he becomes angry, demands to know where I 
have been. I tell him that is my business, and he goes off in a 
fury. That's nothing new. But then he sends me a formal 
note, saying that unless I write to him and explain my absence 
from London he will never see me again.” 

“ Which you will do ?” 

“ How could I, without telling him about you ?” 

“ Say you went to visit a friend.” 

“ Then he says, ‘ What friend?’ with a face as black as thunder. 
I reply that I won’t be subjected to his suspicions. He retorts 
that he is not suspicious ; but that common-sense, and what not, 
and what not. I tell him that he dare not talk to a lady of his 
own class in the way he talks to me ; and that it is because I am 
an actress that he is suspicious, taking up the vulgar prejudices 
against actresses. Now, all the time I have known him, I don’t 
think we ever passed a day without having a quarrel about the 
profession.” 

“ Your acquaintanceship must have been agreeable?” 

“ It has. There is nothing both of us like so much as quarrel- 
ling and making -up. For my part, I couldn’t bear to have a 
sweetheart always pleasant, and reasonable, and sensible. I like 


304 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


one who is madly in love, who does extravagant things, who quar- 
rels fearfully, and gets frantic with delight when you let him be 
friends again.” 

“ But the very last time we spoke of Mr. Glyn you said he and 
you would never get on together, because he wanted those very 
virtues of solidity and common -sense and manly forbearance. 
You said he was too like yourself.” 

“Did I say so? Well, I have a different explanation of it ev- 
ery day. I only know that we perpetually quarrel, and that the 
making-up of quarrels is very nice.” 

“What would you do if I were to give you five hundred 
pounds a year ?” 

“Go to Paris, and drive in the Bois de Boulogne with a pair 
of ponies,” replied Nelly, with admirable precision. 

“ Wouldn’t you marry Mr. Glyn, leave the stage, and be com- 
fortable in some small house at Hampstead ?” 

“ No,” she said, frankly ; “ I haven’t got the domestic faculty. 
I should worry his life out in a few months.” 

“What do you say, then, to going with me to America? I 
mean to leave England for a long time — for some years — and I 
shall spend most of the time in America, visiting the places my 
mother and I used to know.” 

“ You are going to leave England ?” said Nelly, looking up 
with earnest, curious eyes. 

“Yes.” 

“ You will forgive my saying it — you have had some peculiar 
secret from me for a long time — not your coming here, but 
something quite different. I knew that when you suddenly left 
the stage, and wouldn’t return, for no reason whatever. Why 
should you have left the stage, of all people ?” 

“ I left it simply because I got to dislike it — to hate it !” 

Nelly Featherstone said nothing, but she was evidently not 
satisfied with the answer. She remained unusually thoughtful 
for some time. 

“And now you are going to America,” she said. “ Is there no 
other reason besides your wish to visit those places you speak 
of?” 

“ There is ; but it is of no consequence to any one.” 


305 


“the coulin.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“the coulin.” 

The snow that shone and gleamed in the sunlight along the 
Berkshire hills lay thick in the London squares, and was trampled 
brown and dry in the London streets; and yet even in the City 
it was white enough to throw a light upon the faces of the pass- 
ers - by, until commonplace countenances underwent a sort of 
transfiguration ; and there was in the atmosphere a pearly radiance 
that brightened the fronts of the gray houses, and glimmered 
into small and dingy rooms. 

“Let all the light come in,” said Dove, lying in bed, with a 
strange transparent color in her cheeks and a wan lustre in her 
beautiful violet eyes ; and when they let the strong light in, it 
fell on her face, and painted away the shadows under the eye- 
brows until the head that lay on the soft pillow acquired a strange 
ethereal glory — a vision colored with sunlight. 

“You haven’t played ‘The Coulin’ for me for a long time 
now, Dove,” said Mr. Anerley. 

“You used never to like -my playing ‘The Coulin;’ why do 
you want me to play it now ?” 

“ I wish you were well enough to play anything, my darling.” 

The girl stretched out her tiny pale hand towards his : 

“ How you have petted me lately ! If I were to get up just 
now and sing you the song I used to sing you, you wouldn’t 
laugh at my ‘ meghily ’ any more, would you ?” 

“ Meghily , meghily shall I sleep now ” — the words sounded in 
his ears as the refrain of some spirit-song, heard long ago, in hap- 
py times, down in the far-off legendary Kentish Eden, where they 
had once lived. 

“A letter for you, papa,” said Mrs. Anerley, entering the room. 

“ I don’t want it !” he said, petulantly and angrily turning away 
— quarrelling with the mist of bitter tears that rose around his 
eyes. 

She glanced from him to Dove (her kindly eyes brightened as 


306 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


they met the quiet look of the girl), laid the letter down, and left 
the room again. Mechanically he took up the letter, opened it, 
and read it. Before he had finished, however, he seemed to recall 
himself ; and then he read it again from the beginning — carefully, 
anxiously, with strange surprise on his face. He looked at the 
envelope, again at the letter, and finally at the bank-note which 
he held in his hand. 

“ Dove, Dove !” he said, “ look at this ! Here is the money 
that is to take us all down to St. Mary -Kirby again — back to the 
old house, you know, and your own room up-stairs ; and in a little 
while the spring-time will be in, and you and I shall go down to 
the river for primroses, as we used to do. Here it is, Dove — ev- 
erything we want ; and we can go, whenever you brighten up and 
get strong enough to move.” 

“ But where did you get the money, papa?” 

“God must have looked at your face, my darling, and seen 
that you wanted to go to St. Mary-Kirby.” 

“And you have plenty of money, papa, to spend on anything?” 

All his ordinary prudence forsook 'him. Even without that 
guarantee of the bank-note, he would at once have believed in the 
genuineness of the letter, so eager was he to believe it for Dove’s 
dear sake. 

“ Plenty of money, Dove ? Yes. But not to spend on any- 
thing. Only to spend on you.” 

“ There was Will’s knock,” she said ; “ he has just come in 
time to hear the news. But go and tell him in another room, 
papa, for I am tired.” 

So he left the room, and, as Will had come in, the two men 
had a long consultation over this strange letter. 

“You need not remain long in suspense, sir,” said Will; 
“ write me out a check for fifty pounds, and I will take it down 
to the bank.” 

“ But I have none of the printed checks of the bank.” 

“You don’t need one. That is a vulgar error. Any bit of 
paper with a stamp on it will do.” 

“ But they must know that my signature is genuine.” 

“True. You must come down with me and see the manager. 
In any case, we can bear the disappointment, if the thing is a 
hoax. W T hen you have ascertained that you are a rich man, 
father, I’ll give you another piece of good news.” 


307 


“the coulin.” 

Mrs. Anerley was left with Dove, and the two men drove off to 
the bank. The manager had expected the visit. He warded off 
Will’s bold inquiries with a grave silence ; he had received certain 
instructions — it was not his business to say from whom. 

“ Before I can avail myself of this money,” said Mr. Anerley, 
“you must at least answer me one question. Was it placed in 
your hands by Frederick Hubbard — by Count Schonstein ?” 
“No.” 

“ Thank you.” 

So they went out into the free air, and lo! London was 
changed. It was no longer a cruel and bitter mother, starving 
her children, heedless of their cries and their sufferings ; but a 
gracious empress, profuse of feasts, with stores of pleasures in her 
capacious lap. And this generous creature was to exercise all 
her power on behalf of Dove ; and pure air, and the sweet sun- 
light, and the sharp hunger of health, were once more to make 
the young girl’s face less shadowy and unreal. 

“ Now for your news, Will,” said the old man, cheerfully. 

“Nothing much, sir,” said he. “Only that I have gained the 
appointment, and the company guarantees me one thousand 
pounds a year for three years. It never rains but it pours, you 
see ; and if Heaven would only send one more good — ” 

“ My poor girl’s health,” said the old man ; and he would have 
given up all his money, and been glad to suffer far greater priva- 
tions than he had done for the rest of his life, only to secure that 
one supreme blessing. 

When they returned to the house, Mrs. Anerley came to say 
that Dove wanted to see Will, alone. He went into the room, 
and stooped over her and kissed her forehead and took her hand. 
She looked very pleased and happy. 

“ Papa won’t be vexed any more. He has got plenty of mon- 
ey, has he not ?” she said. 

“ Yes ; but that money is for them. Our money, Dove, must 
come from me; and I have got it — I have got the appointment 
— and so hurry, hurry fast and get well ; and then, hey ! for a 
carriage, and cream-white horses, and jingling bells to take my 
Dove to church.” 

She pressed his hand slightly ; and her eyes were wistful and 
absent. The beautiful land lay along the horizon, and she strain- 
ed her vision to see it, and the sight of it — for it was so very 
beautiful — made her sad. 


308 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ Come close down, Will, and let me whisper to you. I have 
taken a fancy into my head lately. I never spoke of it, for I 
knew neither you nor papa had money ; but now it is different. 
You said we were to be married.” 

“Why talk of our ‘maghiage’ in that melancholy way, you 
provoking mouse ?” 

“ Don’t laugh at me, Will ! What I have been thinking is 
this : that I should like to know that I could be married to you 
at any time without having to wait until I was better — which 
might be for such a long, long time ; and I should like to know 
that at any moment I could say to you, ‘ Will, make me your 
wife now ,’ and you could come into the room, and all the people 
would know that I was your wife.” 

There are ghastly dreams in which the sleeper, gazing on a 
broad and sunny landscape, suddenly becomes conscious of a cold 
and terrible pressure, and, lifting up his eyes, sees a broad cloth, 
white and black like a funeral-pall, descending slowly from the 
sky, and shutting out the glad sunlight, and gliding down upon the 
earth. All living things fly from it ; if they remain, they grow 
fixed and immovable, and their eyes become glazed as the eyes 
of death. 

As terrible as such a dream was the vague, scarcely-to-be-im- 
agined suggestion which these patient, simple words of Dove bore 
with them ; and Will, horror-struck by the picture on which her 
absent eyes seemed now to be gazing (with its dreadful hint about 
the people standing around), demanded why she should ask this 
thing, or why she troubled her mind with it. 

“ My dearest,” she said, with a faint smile stealing across the 
childlike face, “ it does not vex me. It pleases me. There is 
nothing dreadful about the idea to you, is there ? I cannot go 
with you to church to be married. When you talk of a carriage, 
and white horses, and bells, it seems to me to be so far off — so 
very, very far away — that it is of no use, and it makes me miser- 
able. But now, if we were married here, how I should like to 
hear you call me your wife, as you went about the room !” 

“And so you shall, my pet, whenever you please. But for you 
to turn such a dreadful heretic, Dove, and imagine that a marriage 
outside a church is a marriage at all ! Why, even a dispensation 
from the Archbishop of Canterbury seems sacrilegious where there 
are no bride-cake, and old slippers, and a lot of carriages.” 


309 


“the coulin.” 

“Now you’re becoming kind again, Will. And you’ll do as I 
ask without bothering me about reasons? What I should like, 
you know, would be the power of getting married when I wanted 
— if I could have the dispensation, as you say, all ready, and just 
at any moment I might terrify you by crying out, ‘ Will, come 
and marry me !’ I might be merciful, too, you know, Will ; and 
perhaps let you off, if you were very good and attentive. I’d tell 
you some day to go to the drawer and take out the paper and 
burn it. It would be like giving a slave his freedom.” 

“You will be such a dreadful tyrant when you’re married, 
Dove, that I shudder to think of what you’ll do to me.” 

“ I think I should have been very kind to you, Will,” said the 
girl, suddenly bursting into tears, and turning away her face from 
him. 

Next morning Dove was a great deal better, everybody thought. 
Even the doctor spoke cheerfully, and the whole house was radi- 
ant. A thaw had set in ; the air was foggy, and damp, and close ; 
and the streets were in that condition which melted snow and 
drizzling rain generally produce in London, but inside the house 
there was sunlight enough for all concerned. And when, on the 
following morning, the weather cleared, and the sun painted bars 
of yellow on the curtains of the windows, it seemed as if the old 
sad, anxious time were past, and the dawn of a new and happy 
life had broken over them. 

Nevertheless, Dove did not give up her idea of the special li- 
cense and the private marriage. Rather she lay and brooded 
over it ; and sometimes her face was moved with a happy delight 
which those around her could not well understand. Indeed, her 
heart was so bent upon it, that they all agreed to acquiesce in 
her wishes, and the necessary steps were taken to secure the legal- 
ization of the ceremony. The covert opposition which the pro- 
posal had met was surely not due to any opposition to the mar- 
riage on the part of any one concerned, but to another and vaguer 
feeling, which no one of them dared to reveal to the other. 

Said Dove to him suddenly this morning, 

“ Is Miss Brunei in town, Will ?” 

“ I don’t know, Dove.” 

“ It is such a long time since she came to see me ! I wonder 
if it was because you treated her so coldly the last time she was 
here.” 


310 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“I?” 

“You did not speak to her as you ought to have done. You 
kept near me, and kept speaking to me, as if you imagined I was 
afraid she would take you away from me again. I know you did 
it to please me ; but I could see something in her face, Will, that 
seemed to say that I needn’t be afraid, and that she wouldn’t 
come again. I should he sorry for that. Will you go and ask 
her to come again ?” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it.” 

“And you will speak to her just as you speak to me. I can’t 
be jealous, Will — of her, because she did not try to take you 
from me.” 

“ I will go if you like, Dove,” said Will ; “ but considering — ” 

“I have considered” (with petulant haste). “I have nothing 
to do all day but lie and consider ; and how many things I have 
considered within this day or two ! I have altered my mind com- 
pletely about the marriage. I won’t have you marry me, Will — ” 

“ But all the forms have been gone through — ” 

She lay silent and meditative for some time, and then she said, 

“ I am sorry to have given you so much trouble ; but I should 
like to alter all my plans. You know the betrothals they have 
in French stories and in the operas : I should like to have a be- 
trothal, Will, and all you will have to get for me is a big sheet of 
paper and a marriage-ring.” 

How eagerly he accepted the offer ! This pretty notion of 
hers, which was obviously only meant to please a passing whim, 
was so much more grateful to him than the marriage proposal, 
with its black background. 

“ We will have it at once, Dove ; and I think you are so well 
that you might drink a little Champagne with us to grace the 
ceremony. Then I shall be able to call you my wife all the same, 
and you shall wear the wedding - ring ; and then, you know, we 
can have the white horses and the carriages afterward. But I 
am afraid the betrothal contract will be frightfully inaccurate ; I 
don’t know the terms — ” 

“ Get a sheet of paper, Will, and I will tell you what to write 
down.” 

He got the paper, and, at her dictation, wrote down the follow- 
ing words : 

“We two, loving each other very dearly, write our names un- 


THE COULIN. 


311 


« 


derneath in token that we have become husband and wife, and as 
a pledge of our constant love.” 

She smiled faintly when he placed the writing before her, and 
then she leaned back on the pillow with a satisfied air. Mrs. An- 
erley now came into the room, and Will, obeying some further 
commands, went off to see whether Annie Brunei was yet in her 
old lodgings, and also to purchase a wedding-ring for the ceremo- 
ny on which Dove had set her heart. 

Miss Brunei’s landlady told Will that her lady lodger would 
probably return the next day, with which piece of information 
he returned. He also showed Dove the wedding-ring; and she 
placed it on her finger, and kept it there. 

But that evening the insidious disease from which the girl was 
suffering withdrew the treacherous semblance of health it had 
lent to her burning cheeks, and it was obvious that she had grown 
rapidly worse. They all saw it, and would not confess it to each 
other. They only noticed that Mrs. Anerley did not stir now 
from Dove’s bedside. 

Mr. Anerley spent nearly the whole of that night in walking 
up and down his own room ; from time to time stealthily receiv- 
ing messages, for they would not admit to Dove that they felt 
much anxiety about her. The man seemed to have grown gray- 
er; or perhaps it was the utter wretchedness of his face that 
made him look so old and careworn. Will sat in an easy-chair, 
gloomily staring into the fire. The appointment he had so eager- 
ly sought and so joyfully gained, fancying it was to bring them 
all back again into pleasant circumstances, was only a bitter mock- 
ery now. He could not bear to think of it. He could bear to 
think of nothing when this terrible issue was at stake in the next 
room. 

In the morning, when the first gray light was sufficiently clear 
to show Dove’s face to the nurse and Mrs. Anerley, the latter 
looked at the girl for a long time. 

“ Why do you look at me so, mamma ?” she asked. 

She could not answer. She went into the next room, and cry-* 
ing, “ Oh, Hubert, Hubert, go and look at my Dove’s face !” burst 
into tears on her husband’s bosom. And yet there was nothing 
remarkable about the girl’s face — except, perhaps, to one who had 
watched it critically all the night through, and was alarmed by 


312 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


the transition from the ruddy lamplight to the gray and haggard 
tone of the morning. 

The doctor came, and went away again, saying nothing. 

Towards the forenoon, Dove said to Will, 

“ I want to hear ‘ The Coulin ’ — ” 

“ Not ‘The Coulin ’, Dove,” he pleaded. 

“ When Miss Brunei comes, perhaps she will play it. The 
music is simple. Put it on the piano — and — and send for her.” 

He himself went for her — out into the bright light of that 
fresh spring morning. Annie Brunei, when he found her, was in 
her poor lodgings, dressed in the simple black dress in which he 
had last seen her. 

“ I was going up to see Dove,” she said, “ when I heard she 
had sent for me. But — is there anything the matter ?” 

“ Dove is ill,” he said, abruptly. “ I — I cannot tell you. But 
she wants you to come and — play a piece of music for her.” 

Neither of them spoke a word all the way to the house. When 
Annie Brunei, pale and calm and beautiful, went to the girl, and 
took up her white hand, and kissed her, there was a pleased smile 
on Dove’s face. 

“ Why didn’t they tell me you were ill ?” she said. “ I should 
have been here before.” 

“ I know that,” said Dove, in a whisper, “ for — for you have 
always been kind to me. You have come in time — but I am too 
weak to tell you — ask Will — the betrothal — ” 

The brief explanation was speedily given ; and then Dove said, 

“ I am very tired. Will you go into the next room and play 
me ‘ The Coulin ?’ And when you come back — ” 

She went to Dove’s piano, and found there the air which she 
knew so well. And as she played it, so softly that it sounded 
like some bitter sad leave-taking that the sea had heard and mur- 
mured over, Dove lay and listened with a strange look on her 
face. Will’s hand was in hers, and she drew him down to her, 
and whispered, 

“ I could have been so happy with you, Will : so very happy, 
I think. But I had no right to be. Where is the — the paper — 
I was to sign ?” 

He brought it, and put it on the table beside her bedside ; and 
Miss Brunei came into the room, and went over to Dove. 

“ That is the paper I must sign,” said the girl. “ But how 


“the coulin.” 313 

can I? Will yon — will you do it for me? But come closer to 
me and listen, for I have — a secret — ” 

When Annie Brunei bent down her head to listen, Dove drew 
the wedding-ring olf her finger, kissed it tenderly, and put it on 
her companion’s hand ; and then she said, looking Annie in the 
face with a faint smile in the peaceful violet eyes, “It is your 
own name you must sign.” 

At the same moment she lay back exhausted, and to Mr. An- 
erley, who had hurriedly stepped forward to take her hand, she 
sighed wearily, “ I am so tired ! I shall rest.” And presently a 
beautiful, happy light stole over the girlish features; and he 
heard her murmur indistinctly — as if the words were addressed 
to him from the other world — the old familiar line, “ Meghily , 
meghily shall I sleep now." 

They were the last words that Dove uttered, and the cause of 
the last smile that was on her sweet face. 


THE END. 
































































































































































































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